Adam I Have Loved
by Adamantwrites
Summary: The title is a paraphrase of Romans 9:13. Although there have been many stories of Adam living with Indians-and I have checked many out to make certain I haven't appropriated anything-this is an attempt at a reinvention of canon, having Adam taken by Indians while a boy and later, when meeting up with his father, if he will reveal himself or exact revenge on being abandoned. An AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Adam I have loved**

 **One**

"I can't find him, Ben," Inger said, her voice edged with panic. "I went to all the wagons and checked with all the children—none of them have seen Adam. Oh, Ben!" Inger Cartwright pressed a hand over her mouth as she feared she was going to start screaming like a mad woman. The boy was gone and although he was her husband's son, she loved him as her own and he loved her. That she knew. There was no mistaking the tender kiss goodnight he placed on her cheek or his smile when she tousled his dark, wavy hair and called him her _söt pojke_.

Ben Cartwright held his wife by her arms; he wanted to calm her but he felt cold fear himself. "We'll find him—don't worry. Tom Burnside and Walter went west, Jeffers, Simon and I are going to search north—Franklin and Joregensen are sweeping the east side and Millard, Hudson and Sanderson, the south. We'll find him. We'll find him." But Ben wasn't as sure as he sounded. The name "Adam" echoed in the falling darkness, called by many different voices; even the children secured within the circle of wagons called for their lost friend. This was their basic, submerged terror brought to the surface, that something would happen to them and their parents would be at a loss to prevent it so their calls had an urgency that was also of self-interest.

Ben Cartwright had a deeper fear that was weighted with guilt—his boy had disappeared and it was his fault. He had punished the boy for fighting and then refusing to obey, taken his razor strop to him and when Ben had finished, his chest heaving with suppressed emotion, Adam had taken off to the surrounding trees. Ben hesitated to call him back—the boy was going off to cry alone. Adam was only five years old but even at that age, the boy was proud—too proud, Ben always thought, and wouldn't cry in front of others. That was Adam—proud and remote.

"It helps to talk, Adam, to share your pain with others," Ben had once told him as the boy sat holding the limp bird he had rescued and tried to raise with Inger's help. It had died and the child was distraught, Ben knew it, but all he did was hold it and stroke its smooth feathers with his thumb while Ben dug a hole.

The boy had looked up at him with his hazel eyes that seemed much older than his years said as way of explanation, that the bird had died—all things did. Then he placed it in the hole and taking the spade from his father, he piled the dirt on top, then pounded it down with the flat side. And that was all Adam had said about it.

The sun was setting quickly and Inger lit a lantern and held it up, walking about the perimeter of the circle of wagons and calling. "Adam! Adam! Time to come home now! Adam! Oh, please, Adam, come home now, söt pojke!" Her voice cracked into tears, sobs escaping her as the only answer was the echoes of the boy's name from the searching men.

The child wasn't found that night and the next day, the wagons agreed to stay and search. All that day the men searched but it was a small wagon train, only nine wagons, and they couldn't waste much time. It looked as if it would be an early winter—already the mornings were chilly and they could ill afford to be caught in snow. But after another restless night throughout the camp, they stayed their departure another half day but at noon, one of the men said it was time to move on; they might be able to make three-four miles before dark.

Ben Cartwright said he'd stay behind and once they found Adam, they would catch up with the train. The other men tried to discourage such recklessness—the women as well; there was safety only in numbers and precious little safety at that—a man alone with a wife about to birth her first child, well…. Besides, loss wasn't unknown to anyone. The Hudson's youngest child had died of a fever a month earlier. Sanderson's girl had been bitten by a snake and died in agony and the grieving mother ripped out hunks of her own hair and shrieked at burying the body in the wilderness. She had to be tied inside the wagon so she wouldn't run off to remain beside small grave. It was weeks before anything resembling sanity came back to her. And she still had the hollow-eyed look of someone on the tenuous verge of madness, looking blankly ate her husband and their remaining two children as if they were strangers.

But the men's pleadings that Ben move on with them, were of no use—Ben said he wouldn't leave without Adam—they hadn't found his body so he must be alive. The other men looked at one another—the knew that wasn't true. Bears and panthers often pulled a large catch off to eat in private away from circling wolves or other competition.

But the women used another approach. "Think of Inger," Jorgensen's wife had said to him. Ben looked at his wife; she was heavy with child and lately she hadn't been well. Although Inger was a healthy woman, earlier on she had a scare—it seemed the child may have died in the womb but then she had felt the quickening and was relieved as was Ben but ever since then, the child had constantly moved and struggled against its restrictions seeming impatient to enter the world.

"He seems to think he can kick his way out," Inger had whispered one night, smiling wanly as she had lain on the pallet, unable to sleep.

Ben had glanced over at Adam to be sure he was still asleep. "Let me help," he had whispered to Inger and raising her gown up to below her breasts, he massaged her abdomen and he could feel the child moving about, highly restless as he pressed his broad hand against the movements. And Ben smiled. "He's going to be a strong boy. Strong. I think the name Hoss will fit him perfectly."

Inger lightly laughed. "Oh, Ben-Hoss? I think Erick is better and we had decided…"

"You know Adam's set on it. Why he talks about teaching 'Hoss' to fish and how to read—all he talks about is Hoss, Hoss, Hoss! And he still remembers what your brother said, or as he puts it, what Uncle Gunnar said about hoping our son will be called 'Hoss,' a man of 'friendly ways.' You don't want to disappoint Adam, do you?" Ben asked playfully as he rubbed the taut flesh of his wife's abdomen.

"Oh, heavens no. But maybe, Ben, the child will be a girl."

"Well, as big as this child is going to be, I hope it's a boy—but if it's a girl, she'll be such a big woman she may well fit the name Hoss as well!" And the man and woman laughed together—it would be the last time they would know complete happiness.

Heeding Mrs. Jorgensen, Ben looked at his wife, Inger. She had barely eaten since Adam went missing and had been restless the night before, unable to sleep not just from worry about Adam, but from the size of the child she was carrying. Ben knew her time may be early and that alone on the trail, both she and the child might die without the assistance of the other women—and even with their assistance it was still possible that he could lose them both. The women on the train, as they had traveled the same path, had formed a communal bond and had assisted and comforted each other in ways known only to women; men couldn't understand a woman's true lot in life. Only another woman could understand and give what is needed.

So Ben relented after one more quick scouring of the area; everyone who could, searched again but after another two hours, the wagon train moved on and Ben felt as if his heart was wrenched from him as the wagon wheels began to turn and carry him further and further away from his lost child. And it took a few months before Ben could bring himself to write in the family Bible that became his when his own father died, the two deaths- Adam Stoddard Cartwright, firstborn son of Benjamin Cartwright and Elizabeth Stoddard Cartwright, lost and presumed dead the month of September, the year of our Lord, 1836. Inger Borgstrom Cartwright, most beloved wife of Benjamin Cartwright, born 1811, died 14 October 1836, Ash Hollow, Utah Territory.

And then, below the record of the two deaths, he wrote: Erick Borgstrom Cartwright, born 2 October 1836, Utah territory.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

Men talked and waited in the Bucket of Blood Saloon and the three men who sat at a battered wooden table in the corner, sipping their warm mugs of beer drew no particular attention that morning; there were other things going on such as the prospect of a job—good pay for a few month's work. The day was going to be hot—summer had arrived earlier than usual and even inside there was no escaping the heat that seemed to wring a man dry. And to the dark-haired one, it seemed there wasn't enough beer in the whole Nevada territory to quench his thirst, but then his thirst was more than just physical. But he had no idea how to slake it since to surged from such depths.

Being served a beer had been difficult for him—in every town he had been to, it was always difficult. "We don't serve no Injuns," he was always told or some permutation accompanied by narrowed eyes and a lip curled with disdain. In some towns, he wasn't even allowed entry into a saloon. And the most ridiculous aspect of the denial was that to anyone who really looked, it was obvious he was no Indian, No Indian ever had black stubble from a few days' growth of beard and no Indian had coarse, curly hair on his chest and arms or clear, hazel eyes. And yet, because of his hybrid clothing and the necklace boasting huge bear claws, he was marked instantly as an Indian. It didn't help that his skin was brown from the sun and his hair was shiny black.

When he had been a younger man and was first roaming the southwest on his own, desperate to find some type of sanctuary, someone to give him a place to live or a reason to go on, he fought being denied simple courtesies such as a drink or a hotel room ("I'd have to burn the sheets after you slept in 'em; no amount of washin' can get rid of Injun stink!") But since he had almost been beaten to death in a small town in Texas territory where he had to drag himself off the street into a stinking alleyway to nurse his wounds like some abused mongrel, anymore, he didn't protest if he was turned away, just left and rode on. A man alone, especially one who was thought, even if not to be a full Indian, at least a half-breed—well, that man didn't stand a chance in the new world where every red man was seen as a sub-human savage.

But it had been his own choice to take out on his own and to remain in his buckskin shirt even if it was now paired with white man dungarees. And as he wandered through the territory, he often found a few days' work breaking horses or recovering cattle or helping with branding; in those situations, he found that his mistaken race was a help. It amused him that white men though that an Indian would be better able to break a wild horse or have an instinct for finding cattle that had wandered into the high country. But he also never fit in with the ranch hands and one time, in a bunkhouse, the other cowboys protested sharing the space with him. He had chopped off his hair with a knife to better fit in but it hadn't worked so he stayed silent and knew he was an alien even among his own people.

The young man knew that if he wore regular heeled boots as all the other drovers did, he would fit in better but he was used to the comfort of the well-worn buffalo hide boots he wore and his feet had protested at the stiff leather boots he had once tried on—a dead-man's boots. Traveling—something he did constantly, moving from place to place-he had found a slaughtered family in Arizona territory. Vultures were perched on their corpses, ripping apart the delicate flesh. He shooed them off, but the huge, bald birds didn't go far and after landing, began to approach again, their beaks dripping gore. The Apaches had made quick work of the homesteaders, taking all four scalps—the husband's, wife's and two small children's. So he had pulled the boots off the dead man and placed them against the soles of his feet as he sat on a barrel and the vultures resumed their meal. The boots looked as if they would fit and he examined them, how they were made with nails holding on the heels—odd in his mind. He quickly unlaced the sides of his boots and slipped them off and shoved his feet into the tall boots. But in walking around, he cursed the boots for their lack of comfort and quickly put back on his own boots. But before he left, he searched the burnt house and barn to see if anything was spared that he could use and other than a long knife that was in the ashes, he found nothing. But before he left, he considered burying the bodies as was the white man's way and didn't know why he should desire it. After all, these people were nothing to him. And Arizona territory was fraught with vicious Apache attacks on homesteaders; this man had been stupid to put his family in such danger and for what? Land that couldn't even be farmed. Dry dust and cactus. He started to leave again but stopped. He pulled matches out of his saddlebags and shooing off the vultures again, pulled the husband's body near his wife and children who had obviously died clutching one another, the mother obviously trying to shield them. He set the corpses' clothes afire and pulling out scorched, unburned pieces of wood, set them on top of the bodies so they would catch. They burned together and he watched for a few minutes. The vultures still hopped about nearby, flapping their wings. Then he rode away with one last glance at the flames and the angry vultures who were robbed of their feast on flesh.

But in Elko, Utah territory, he had met two drovers who had just ended a cattle drive—and said they were sick of cattle—sick of the stink, of the dust and the beans and mainly, of taking orders. Their names were Jed Cleary and Mose Harper. So the three of them, all three close to 30 years of age, rode together, taking odd jobs and becoming petty thieves who opportunistically robbed in order to buy a whore or merely lose it at gambling. But the dark-haired man who said he was called Esau, didn't gamble, didn't frequent brothels and kept his money secreted. But sometimes he felt a hunger for a woman and a thirst for strong drink and wondered why he couldn't laugh at the world the way good-natured Mose with his high coloring and thatch of unruly red hair could, or to flatter a woman like Jed could and not only tell her but convince her she was pretty even if she was uglier than homemade soap. But Esau knew he couldn't—if life was a joke, it wasn't a funny one-and he felt it was cruel to make people believe things that weren't true, especially that they were loved when they weren't.

Now the three companions were in Virginia City and had been told that the two biggest ranches in the area, the Ponderosa and the Rocking M, were looking for experienced drovers to move their hundreds upon hundreds of head of steer from Nevada to the railhead in Abilene, Kansas. And since Mose and Jed had experience, they decided they would sign on, make some honest money for a while and convinced Esau he should as well.

"C'mon, Esau, once we get to Abilene, why that's one helluva town. That's one town that loves drovers, loves the money so you can do just 'bout anything but set fire to town hall and all that'll happen is a night in jail 'til you're sober. I swear it's true." Mose gave Esau a light slap on the arm. "And ain't nothin' to moving cattle. Besides, havin' no experience, you'll probably end up ridin' drag anyway." Jed laughed and Mose chuckled.

"What's riding drag?" Esau looked suspiciously at the other two. They often enjoyed pulling pranks on him; he was simple in many ways, not used to the ways of the world, just that men can be cruel and unjust to those they saw as different.

"Bringing up the rear," Jed said. He was the oldest and the most experienced. "All you do all day is breathe dust, ride through cow chips and go after any cattle hat's dropped behind-but it's the easiest job."

"I don't think I want to do that. I'll move on." Esau took a slug of his beer. "I guess this is where we part ways."

"Hey, don't be that way. We've been together, the three of us, 'most two years now," Mose said. "Ain't we done well? And we got each other's back. If it weren't for us, you wouldn't be sittin' here drinkin' that beer. You be outside lookin' in, lickin' your lips with thirst. How many times you wanna hear that Injuns might as well drink outta the trough like other dumb beasts?"

Esau felt anger rise in his chest. More than a few times had he been told he couldn't enter a building, couldn't buy something because he looked like an Indian. And although Esau knew he should adopt white man's clothes completely since that's what he was, something inside him refused to compromise. And although he was hammered down time after time, he wouldn't give in—never.

"I'm not gonna do the shit jobs on any cattle drive." Esau sat back, his mind made up. "After I finish my beer, I'll be heading out." He raised his mug and took a long swallow.

"If that's what you want, but you don't know what a good time…" Mose raised a hand to stop the barmaid as she went by. "Hey, little lady…"

"My name's Ella, not 'little lady'." She put one hand on her hip. Cowboys. They were objects of disdain as far as she was concerned—nothing better than bums in the alley but they were unusually generous with coin.

"Well, Ella, and you are a pretty thing…"

She glanced over at the dark one. He had intrigued her from the moment she saw him walk across the room to the back table but his eyes didn't express any interest in her as a woman and it puzzled her. She turned her attention back to the unknown request. "Just get to it, cowboy. What is it?"

"Now there's no reason to be that way, Miss Ella, we just want to know when the ranchers are comin' to town to hire drovers. We're signin' on." Mose smiled broadly and Jed winked at her. Ella looked back to the dark one. She thought him handsome and felt a bit of shame at her attraction to him—after all, he was pert Indian. But she wondered how his hands would feel on her, his lips on her skin and blushed. She had heard that Indians coupled like animals and the thought of him pressing down on her made her knees weak. He was an odd one, just watched her closely and said nothing, revealed nothing by his face. She'd know men before who just watched life and never participated. But he didn't seem that type. She decided he was the type who had done bad things and kept it all to himself but then all Indians were evil—or so she had been repeatedly warned. Ella had even stopped one time to listen to a Mormon preacher who was speaking to a group. He told them that all Indians were descendants of the Lamanites—dark-skinned, evil and wicked, from the ancient tribe of Israelites. All white men were Nephites, also a branch descended from the ancient Israelites, and were not to be tempted by Lamanite people or their way of life. Ella hadn't really understood it all, not having much learning in the way of religion but it seemed to justify the slaughter of the Paiutes and Bannock tribes.

"See him at the bar," she said pointing, "the one in the green jacket?"

"The pretty one talkin' to the barkeep? Why he's just a young kid—looks like he don't even shave yet." Jed remarked.

"Yeah, he's young. He's from the Ponderosa. My guess is he's settin' up the tab." She glanced around. "See how they're startin' to clear out of here? Mr. Cartwright must be outside hiring and my guess is Mr. McClure from the Rocking M's more'n likely set up across from 'im. They been competin' 'gainst each other for years. Everyone who signs up with the Ponderosa can have as many beers as they can swallow."

The name "Cartwright" brought a chill to Esau as it was deep in his memory. He had come across the name twice before in his wanderings and found there was no connection between him and the people of that name. And now he heard it again. He knew Cartwright was his name, knew it from long before—but the memories had faded, stronger more vivid ones supplanted them; faces from his early life were vague and he could no longer see them in his mind's eye. Esau had come across so many people, suffered such loss and pain and the world was so wide that the chance that he was one of those Cartwrights hiring men for their drive was improbable—if not impossible. But in his hidden heart Esau still carried hope with him like the treasured cherry tree sapling that a family on the wagon train had brought with them and hoped to grow in their new home. They had watered it and sunned it and Esau remembered wondering about the taste of cherries. He had asked his father who said that cherries tasted like worms because if you bit into one, there was more than likely a little white bore-worm in it.

"Thanks, Ella." Mose tossed her a coin and she caught it overhand and dropped it down the front of her dress. As she started to leave, Mose called out, "Ella, think I can get my money back? I'm willin' to hunt for it myself." He grinned but she just glanced back once and then went on.

"Well, looks like it's just you and me, Jed," Mose said. "Sorry we'll be partin' ways, Esau."

"Yeah," Jed added. "Where you gonna go now? Heard there was gold up in the north—way north. Freeze your balls off but then there'd be sacks of gold to make up for the loss of 'em, and trust me, every woman I've ever known would rather have gold in her "purse" than a man."

"Rub two gold coins together and they whisper pretty things in their ears, things women love to hear." Mose added and the two men laughed; Esau watched them. He knew about women, about one woman in particular but neither Mose nor Jed had ever heard him speak once about wanting a woman or seen him play up to one.

"Well, I might stick around town for a while," Esau said. "Lemme see what's needed around here."

"Now you're talkin' sense. With all these men gone, well, who knows?" Jed said. "C'mon, Mose. Let's finish this piss-warm beer and sign on."


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

"And what's your last name?" Ben Cartwright said to the man standing before him. Ben had been hesitant to hire the young man who said his name was Esau but he did need at least one ranch hand left behind on the Ponderosa after the others left. Ben guessed the man was close to 30 years but he had said when asked, that he had little experience as a drover. When asked what he had done so far in his life that qualified as work, the man smiled slightly and answered that he had worked as a ranch hand, worked to help bring in various crops, helped brand calves, broken a few horses in his time and slaughtered pigs and hogs on Midwestern farms. He added he hoped he'd never have to do that again. But what he didn't say was that hamstringing the hog to drain its blood reminded him too much of how the Osage sometimes tortured their enemies, usually Kiowa or a far-ranging Comanche, hanging them upside down near the camp, binding their arms behind them. Then the women would come with burning sticks pulled from the fire and burn the prisoner over many points of his body, paying particular attention to his genitals. As the man screamed, the braves sat and smoked, knowing that the man's spirit was weak and would return to their own camp, telling the other spirits of the ferocity of the Osage People. Once they bored of the screaming, one brave would cut out the prisoner's tongue and toss it to the dogs which snarled and snapped among themselves. Eventually, before the enemy naturally died, one warrior, usually the one who had captured the prisoner, slit his throat as the blood drained from the body, the dogs licking up what they could. But there were far worse ways to be tortured that Esau had witnessed.

Ben appraised the young man before him. Joe wasn't yet old enough to be a judge of men and Ben wondered if he ever would be. Joe was still a boy, true, but Ben doubted his younger son had the instinct or ever would. He enjoyed life too much to consider that others might be cruel or evil, was too happy in life, too joyful and wanted nothing more than the smile of a pretty girl and to steal a shy kiss. But then, the boy was handsome, far more handsome than was good for him, bordering on beauty with his mischievous green eyes and tousled curls, his ready laugh. But he brought Joe with him, much to the boy's protests, to hire the hands, hoping he would see what traits Ben found necessary in a drover.

Ben had left his foreman behind to prepare for the drive, taking the hands her kept on regularly to search the high lands for any stray cattle. The drive to Abilene would start in two days and so far, he still needed at least ten more men. It seemed that Frank McClure had done him one better this year, offering a ten-dollar immediate bonus to every man who signed on. But then McClure had more liquid cash.

"Pa, we should offer money to them as well," Joe said. "We'd get more men that way."

Ben shook his head. "Joe, this is the type of thing I'm talking about. You have to consider all possible consequences." Joe sighed, made a sound of disdain—as far as he dared go to show his dislike of this duty, and turned away from his father as they sat side by side at the small table from the saloon. "How many of those men McClure hired and paid will be around when it's time for the drive? You ever think of that?"

What do you mean? They signed their names?" Joe placed his hand on the ledger on the table. "We only have five men and they're lined up at his table."

"And that means nothing. Some men will sign away their own mother for ten dollars. If I pay them any anything now, they'll take the money, buy a whore or get drunk or both and we'd never see half of them again, but offering them a share of the price we receive in Abilene above and beyond their pay, well, they'll work harder to make sure all the beeves arrive safely and fat; the more money we make, the more money they make."

So Ben considered the unusual young man standing before him. He had noticed the three men who appeared to be companions but the other two had signed on with McClure; this one had hung behind as if weighing his choices and then he chose the Ponderosa. Ben sized him up; his clothing was an odd mixture of western wear and Indian wear. He wore a buckskin shirt, stained by sweat over time, some of the small beads that had been sewn on as decoration were missing. His buckskin boots along with a necklace of ebony-colored bear claws also marked him as Indian but by his many days-growth of beard and the rough, curly black hair peeking out from the neck of his shirt belied that. He wore no gun but had a sheathed knife at the waist of his work dungarees and a Stetson on his head. And Ben would have bet money that he also had a knife slid in his boot.

All the man had signed in the ledger was "Esau." Nothing else. So Ben asked him again what his last name was.

"Just Esau."

"Son, everyone has a last name."

Hearing the man call him son was almost like a caress to Esau and he considered what it would be like if the grey-haired man with the soft brown eyes was his father—the man who had left him behind, had never come searching for his only son-the man who hadn't cared what happened to him. "Seems every man doesn't because I don't."

Ben looked over at Joe who just snickered and looked away as he crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. Hiring drovers bored him and he'd rather be out visiting some pretty girl or even on the ranch or out hunting lost cattle than to sit here useless. His father never asked his opinion and when Joe complained that sitting there was a waste of time, his father told him he was learning and lessons were invaluable. But Joe was not convinced.

"Fine enough. All right…Esau. Tell you what. Get some more experience as a drover and I'll hire you next spring. But I can offer you something else right now. I need ranch hands to take care of the chores around the Ponderosa with just about everyone else gone on the drive. Interested?"

"That depends. How much does it pay?" Esau knew he was going to accept the job no matter what but he went through the motions of what would be expected of him—of any man who was white. Money was paramount in their society.

"A dollar a day—bunk and beans."

Esau nodded. "When do I report?"

"Two days from now." Ben detected disappointment in the young man's face; perhaps he had no place to sleep, no money for food. "The bunk house is full and there'd be no room for you at the moment…but if you wouldn't mind sleeping in the barn…"

"No—I wouldn't mind. I prefer the company of animals anyway; they don't talk too much."

Ben smiled but Esau didn't. Ben realized that Esau's reply wasn't an attempt at a joke. "Fine. You can report this afternoon after you've had your fill of beer. Just go in and tell the barkeep you've signed on with the Ponderosa."

"I bought my own beer and had my fill. Who do I report to?"

"My other son—he's there at the ranch. Just ask for Hoss Cartwright."

Esau felt his heart thundering in his ears; he could barely breathe. "Who?" he barely managed to get out.

"Hoss. My other son is named Hoss. Just go to the Ponderosa—go north from here and follow the road to the west. That's the longest way but until you learn any of the paths to cut across…you all right, son?" Ben stood and put his hand on the man's arm but he jerked away. Esau staggered back a step and then seemed to recover himself.

"Yes." Esau scrutinized the man. His last name was Cartwright—was his first name Ben? He could still hear Inger's voice and her accent as she always said, "Now, Ben…But, Ben…" She always prefaced her words to him with his name. "I go north. Ask for Hoss Cartwright."

"Yes," Ben said, still standing. The young man nodded and walked away. Ben watched him leave, watched the looseness of his walk, the broadness of his shoulders and the way his buckskin boots made no noise on the wooden sidewalk. But then another man stood before him to be hired and his attention was drawn away but he still considered his last hire as the man disturbed him—and he had no idea why.

Esau rode in the direction of the Ponderosa. His pulse had eventually calmed as he rode along—the sounds of birds and the quick view of a deer before it bounded into the forest line soothed him. The surrounding land was magnificent; he considered what it would be like if he was related to these Cartwrights. The Osage didn't understand how a person could "own" land. The land was the land and just as a man could not own air or water, neither could he possess that which was of the Great Spirit. One did not even own one's life—that too could be taken back by the Great Spirit at any time.

The grey-haired man had called him "son" and if he was actually Ben Cartwright's son, that meant that the curly-haired, cherry-mouthed kid with him was also Ben's son and his brother. But the boy, Joe was his name, hadn't looked anything like Inger, at least not what he could remember. The image of Inger's smiling face had stayed with him for a few years but it had slowly faded just as his father's face had faded as well. All that remained was the impression that his father was tall and dark-haired with a booming voice. And that his name was Ben. There was a reason he wanted his half-brother to be named Hoss, Inger's child to be called Hoss—his Uncle Gunnar-Inger's brother. Uncle Gunnar had said it would be a good name. But what his uncle Gunnar had looked like, Esau couldn't remember.

As Esau rode along, he tried to remember many things. The first year with the Osage, every night he would lie on his blanket and say names to himself including his own: Ben…Inger…Gunnar…Hoss...Grandfather Stoddard…Elizabeth—his mother; he knew that was her name. He had been told the story by his father. Every night he would remember incidents, traveling with his father, meeting Miss Inger Borgstrom—and he would make them sink like stones in his memory but over time, they faded slightly. Faces would blur but the names he remembered. At least he thought he did. But faces merged so why not memories? Memory was imperfect—that he knew. And perhaps he longed for a history that was more noble, more grand than what had actually happened. Time blurred memories and intervening events changed things, tinted them with emotions and inaccuracies. But his hate for the man who abandoned him remained.

The ranch house was in a clearing surrounded by tall pines and yew trees. A red barn stood a few yards from the house. Not too far to walk but far enough away where the smell of horse manure wouldn't waft to the house. A bunk house also stood an adequate distance away to give the hands a sense of privacy. But the ranch house itself was a thing of beauty. It was sturdily built of rough-hewn pine and had a wide porch on the front with rocking chairs and even a small wooden table and chairs. Two lanterns hung from the porch roof and geraniums were on the windowsills to keep away insects. A rose tree wound up and spread across the roof, framing it like a woman's hair frames her face and accentuates her beauty.

Esau dismounted and hitched his horse, looking about. All was quiet. Until a voice came from the side of the house and through a half-door, a Chinese man stood wearing a blue cap and shirt of the same color. He also held a rifle aimed at Esau's chest.

"What you want?"

"I was told to report here. For work."

"How I know you tell truth?"

"I guess you don't."

"Who told you come here?" The Chinese man leveled the gun again, narrowing his eyes to take aim.

"Mr. Cartwright. He hired me in town as a hand-a ranch hand, not a drover."

"Humph. Mistah Cartwright not say any hire come here today. Not for two days."

Esau said nothing more. The two men stared at one another.

"Mistah Hoss, him be home for lunch soon. You wait outside. Talk to him."

Again, the name—Hoss. "Okay." He felt his heart thumping again. The Chinese man lowered the rifle and reached to close the door. "One thing," Esau added. The Chinese man paused, still wary. "The man who hired me—what's his first name?"

"Him Mistah Ben-owner of Ponderosa."

And the door was shut tight, Esau heard the bolt being thrown. He was locked out as the stranger that he was. But he knew now who had hired him and what he would do. Hadn't he plotted it a hundred times as a child, thought about how he would avenge himself on his father.

A biblical phrase that he still remembered from his young life ran through his mind—"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord." But Esau knew better. He had seen vengeance taken out on the enemy by warriors, by squaws by all those who were injured in some way or another. In the white man's world, vengeance may be up to their god but in his world, vengeance lay in his own hands and he would wreak it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

Adam would run away and then they'd be sorry—or at least hide away for a while and make his father realize that he wouldn't be unfairly punished as in his mind, he had been. He hadn't started the fight although it was more of a tussling match than an actual fight, the two boys rolling around in the dirt, flailing their arms, hoping to make contact with their fists. Then Adam had felt a strong hand snatch him by the collar and jerk him off the other boy; it was his father and he was angry, his mouth compressed in anger.

"I should shake you like a dog, young man. How can you behave this way? Look at you!"

"I didn't start it, Pa." He felt he hadn't. Johnny Burnside had pushed him, made him lose his footing as he was Indian-wrestling with Schuyler Hudson. They had pressed their right feet against one another's, each jockeying for dominance, to dislodge the other and make him step back. Adam was winning even though Schuyler was bigger but he was thinner, not as stocky as Adam was. And then Johnny stepped quickly and laughing, gave him a shove, pushed him out of alignment and laughed even more along with the others. The grown men who were watching as they smoked their pipes or talked and drank their coffee as their wives cooked dinner, also laughed. It was funny only to males—women didn't like to see the boys Indian-wrestle, see them compete with one another, but the men knew how important status was in male society. Even Ben had chuckled when Adam almost lost his footing, almost fell over and to see his father laugh was mortifying. So Adam did the only thing he could do—he drove into Johnny Burnside and the boy hit the ground with a thud. And then Adam began to strike blindly at him and Johnny cried out and attempted to retaliate and the two rolled in the dirt.

"Tell Johnny, you're sorry."

"But he made me lose! He should tell me he's sorry."

"Tell him you're sorry. It was just a joke—you have to learn how to take a joke." Ben knew that Adam still had trouble dealing with other children. He had been raised alone, left alone in boarding houses while Ben worked at odd jobs to raise money as they traveled west. And, in Ben's opinion, Inger babied Adam despite his protestations. Just two nights before, Ben had to ask Inger not to console Adam when he hurt himself; holding him and kissing his dark hair was just too much. Did she want him to be weak? Not able to bear up under pain? Did she want the other people on the train to think Adam was a whey-faced brat?

"Ben, he's just a little boy. He needs comforting."

"He needs to toughen up if he's going to survive."

And that warm night Ben and Inger sat by the fire outside, Adam had lain wrapped in his bedding inside the wagon while the two most important people in his life discussed him. It was their habit as it was for most of the parents, to sit in the relative safety of the circled wagons and drink coffee or a bit of whiskey and play cards with each other or to merely talk. But most people had retired for the night while Ben and Inger still talked and their voices carried through the canvas of the wagon bonnet. Adam heard how his father feared his son would be weak, a victim of all other men if he didn't learn how to get along with the other boys. Their conversation had made Adam feel different, ashamed of the haunting fears that often kept him awake for hours after his father and Inger had fallen asleep.

And with that in mind, Adam couldn't apologize; he couldn't be weak. His father should be proud of him but instead, his father dragged him outside of the circle, turned the struggling boy over his knee and paddled him. Adam had embarrassed him by disobeying when he told the boy to apologize; Ben knew that his pride played into Adam's punishment but children are not to defy their parents. Adam would remember from now on to obey. Actually, whenever the boy sat down for the next day or two, he would be reminded of his defiance. And with unshed tears stinging his eyes, Adam was left alone to consider what he had done. And there was to be an apology to not just Johnny, but Mr. and Mrs. Burnside as well.

The boy sat on the slope of the hill outside the camaraderie of the circle of wagons that had become a small village and swallowed hard; he wouldn't cry. He decided he would show his father how tough he could be. So he decided he would go deeper into the trees and then when they couldn't find him, they would worry and be sorry thy had mistreated him—all of them—even Inger although he didn't know why he wanted her to suffer except that he felt she should have stopped him from being paddled-somehow. When he finally did show up, his father would be so glad to see him, he would apologize for the paddling, beg for Adam's forgiveness, and the apology he had wanted Adam to give to the Burnsides would turn to smoke.

Adam walked further up the hill and the trees became thicker. It was just a copse as his father had said and Adam felt he wouldn't become lost. "Let's stop near that copse of trees," his father had directed the others, and Adam had asked what a copse was and why stop there?

"Well, it's always good to have a hill to your back—you can see anyone or anything sneaking down on the camp. Also, it's good to have trees nearby for firewood. We're running low and can collect some for later when we need it. And as for what a copse is, well, it's a group of trees that aren't part of a large forest—just a small wood. This copse seems to go back a-ways, but it's not going to be home to as many animals."

Adam was proud at how his father's pronouncements carried such weight with the others. His father even served as wagon master since the man they had hired, Wilkes, turned out to be a drunk. But it wasn't just that; Ben Cartwright knew the way west, had studied maps, talked to those who had gone before and knew the dangers. Many a time he had probably saved them by insisting on going one way instead of the one Wilkes had directed.

Adam walked further into the trees until he felt he wouldn't be seen but by lying on his belly, he could see the circle of wagons and hear any raised voice. He was hungry and the enticing smells of bacon and roasted chicken wafted upwind to him. As his hunger became stronger, Adam considered going back down the hill and apologizing. He had heard the term of swallowing one's pride before and he considered that his pride would taste much better followed up by one of the roasted chickens that were kept in a cage strapped to the side of their wagon. And then he heard his step-mother call for him.

His hunger was now great but he waited. He wanted his father to call for him. Let his father ask him back into the fold, call his son repeatedly and when his father's voice took on the tone of anxiety, of fear, then he would show and in his mind, he envisioned that when he did, he would be met with hugs and kisses and Inger's tears of relief that he was alive and well. Adam smiled to himself.

Inger called and called and then there was a pause. And then his father joined in. Adam waited. He sat up, reading to go to them as the light was beginning to fail. He was impatient. He wanted to return but there wasn't yet the urgency in his father's voice; instead he sounded annoyed, angry, demanding. And then Adam heard other voices, the other people on the wagon train joining in, all calling for him and he could see people breaking the safety of the circled wagons to search for him. Now he became fearful; things had gotten out of control. He stood up, ready to descend the hill but before he could take his first step, an arm grabbed him about the waist, lifting him up and before he could cry out, a large hand covered his mouth. And before he could even comprehend what had happened, he was on an Indian pony sitting in front of a brave who kicked the horse to go. And accompanied by three other riders, Adam was spirited away from the only security he had known.

The boy's fear was paralyzing and after riding hard and uncomfortably for what to him, seemed hours, the Indians slowed their horses to a walk. It was dark and Adam had no idea what he should do; this turn of events had never occurred to him, that he might be stolen away by anyone or anything but it had happened. From as early as he could comprehend, the boy had heard stories about Indians, about their murderous ways. And then, when Ben Cartwright realized his son was waking with night terrors about Indians, he would only discuss them in whispered conversations with others as he and his child traveled further and further west. After Ben married Inger Borgstrom whom he had met along the way while working to earn money to continue pressing westward, they joined the wagon train. As the group moved further into the wilderness, Adam saw the results of Indian raids, burned houses and the wagon trains that had been devastated by one tribe or another.

Inger always tried to protect Adam even once putting her hands over his eyes but he had pulled them away. Children's clothing was scattered about and Adam had seen two small bodies, charred but still recognizable. It meant to him that children could be killed as well as adults by Indians. It was a revelation. Up to that point, Adam had been afraid that his father and Inger would be killed by "heathen savages" as he heard them called, and he would be alone on the plain to starve or be torn apart by bears or ravenous wolves. But now he realized that his throat could be slit, his body impaled by a spear with feathers dangling from the end or set afire and he would turn black and twisted as the corpses he saw. He was an imaginative child and his fears grew to such great proportions, that Indians rose in his mind as the worst of all enemies—worse than the varied animals which padded around the camp, wary of entering the man-made circle, their eyes reflecting light from campfires or even the moon. Adam feared Indians even more than the cougars that screamed in the night.

Ben Cartwright as well as the other men, whenever they came across such tragedy wrought by Indians, would stop and quickly dig graves to bury the anonymous bodies although often there was nothing but bones with a few remaining bits of flesh clinging to them; the men would have to fend off vultures or chase off coyotes who had found an easy meal.

After riding another hour or so on the Indian pony, Adam saw their camp situated in a vast open area, fires burning outside. It wasn't what he had expected. He had seen books with pictures of tipis, the conical structures covered in skins and painted with symbols, and expected to see row after row of them but this camp was different. The structures were large and curved at the top, covered with what looked to the boy in the darkness, as some type of straw. Some were partially covered by hides but as the braves rode into the center of the village, people came out of structures that Adam learned much later, were known as wikiups. They were curious as to what the hunters had brought home. Dogs followed the braves' horses, barking. Adam had trouble even remembering that night, his mind only knew fear, only remembered the intense terror of that night and that emotion stayed with him. The brave who held him, grabbed Adam by his arm and swung him down to the ground where the boy fell down, his legs unsteady. Then the brave jumped down while the others untied from their horses the animals they had captured, a deer that had been hung across the hind quarters of one pony, another rabbits and one had a coyote for its fur. But the tall brave snatched Adam from the dirt and dragged the boy to a wikiup where a woman stood waiting. Children followed making noises and laughing and women followed off some distance—obviously curious. Something was said to the woman by the brave and then Adam was more or less tossed in the woman's direction. He tumbled at her feet and she glanced down at the terrified boy, looked back up and smiled at the brave who walked away. Adam noticed she was missing a few teeth.

The woman whose name Adam learnt was Habazi, reached down and grabbed him. She shook him like a dog worries a rat it has caught. Adam later came to understand her name meant "yellow corn," but at the time, for him she was just an old Indian woman with no name. She tossed him back down, speaking to him in harsh tones and then went inside her small home and within a few seconds, she came back out and threw a blanket at him. It was rough and stank but the woman went back inside, a skin dropping over the entrance. Adam huddled closer to the side of the wikiup while children and a few women, the only ones who showed any interest in the white boy who wrapped the blanket about him, walked by to look. One boy picked up a piece of horse manure and flung it at Adam who tucked himself smaller and pulled the blanket up over his head. Other boys and some of the girls laughed, a few dogs barked at the activity, circling the children while more boys picked up whatever they could find and threw it Adam's way, pelting him with small rocks, more clumps of manure and old animal bones. But Adam didn't respond and soon they lost interest.

Even the next day, Adam was of little interest to the tribe. He was just, as he later found, a slave for Habazi, a woman of many years with steel-gray hair and engraved folds and wrinkles in her browned face. A woman who had no husband, no sons anymore and no one to do her chores; she needed someone so the white boy was to be her servant to order about and to cuff if he displeased her, which he apparently often did as she slapped him many times. But that first night, Habazi tossed Adam a small, stale corncake and a sliver of dried meat. He greedily ate them while she watched and spoke to him roughly. Adam tried to make sense of her words, of their tone and accompanying gestures but he was lost. All he wanted was to be back in the wagon, sleeping after eating one of Inger's meals. And after proffering a gourd filled with tepid water which Adam gulped down, Habazi went back inside. And then Adam sat huddled over, hugging his knees and weeping. He longed for Inger's voice, her goodnight kiss and the song she would sing to him—a Swedish lullaby she told him. And when Adam had reluctantly protested that he wasn't a baby and lullabies were for babies, she had asked him if he minded if she kept in practice; one day, there may be another baby, she said, and she didn't want to forget the words. But now there was no song, no comfort offered by his father's presence—he was alone. Eventually the boy fell into a dreamless sleep; life itself had become a nightmare.


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

With each rising sun, Adam expected his father to come for him, to find him and slaughter the Indians who had stolen him away and were now holding him captive; it was the only comfort he had at night as he would curl up within the blanket outside Habazi's wikiup to sleep. But each day Adam was disappointed. He considered running from the camp; no one watched him and at night while the whole village was asleep, he could easily leave but where would he go, he asked himself. What worse terrors waited in the darkness? And then Adam thought he should pray. Of course, that was it! He hadn't prayed so he sat up and prayed. "Our Father who art in heaven, send my pa to find me. Please! Tomorrow! Please let my pa find me tomorrow. I'll be good from now on-just let my pa come get me. Amen." And he smiled to himself. He was certain. After all, every morning on the wagon train, before they headed out on the next leg of their journey, a prayer was said and every night before he lay down to sleep, Inger prayed with him—"If I should die before I wake…" But apparently even God had abandoned him because his father didn't come for him and Adam's hope turned to despair.

The nights became long and lonely for the boy. One of the curs who roamed the camp, standing off a distance with the other dogs while the people ate and scrambling, snarling, for the tossed scraps, approached him warily. It was a chilly night and when Adam didn't speak harshly to him or kick out at him to chase him off, the yellow dog curled up near him. Eventually, the dog moved closer and they shared their warmth and unfortunately, also the fleas. Adam would find himself scratching as he went about his chores of gathering wood and water, of grinding their pittance of corn. Habazi noticed and she chewed up a leaf and placed it on one of the small welts and so Adam learned how to stop the persistent itch. But just like the boy, the dog had no name either and Adam felt no need to give him one. But the dog gave the boy comfort and kept him from his agonizing loneliness and terror of the night. And one night the boy couldn't sleep—the wolves were howling and they seemed closer than usual. And he wondered if one of the yellow-eyed beasts would creep into the camp and clamp down on his leg and drag him out. Would the dog protect him? Would any of the people care or just find another slave for Habazi? And then it struck him—his father had never come for him because he had another son—Hoss. Of course! It was like knife in the heart. His father didn't need him anymore; he had another child to raise and to call his son. A rage rose in his chest and he hated the man he had once loved, hated the brother he had planned to love and teach all manner of things. He wished they would all die—all of them—except Inger. She loved him—that he knew. Didn't he? Suddenly he wasn't so sure and in his mind's eyes he pictured the new happy family—his pa, Inger and the child in their arms, smiling and waving its small arms about. And he was nowhere in the picture. And fed by that image, he was determined that one day when he grew up, he would find them, hunt them down and make them suffer as he was doing.

More days passed and then months, and the small flame of hope was finally extinguished and his memories of the wagon train and his parents faces faded and he accepted his role as slave to Habazi. There were other slaves, other captives, some women, most children, but all of them young and all from neighboring tribes, spoils of war. Sometimes they were traded about among the people of the Wazhazhe—the Osage, as the white men called them. The boy found out once grown and he again had dealings with whites. Although the captured women were rarely accepted into the tribe, sometimes if one was considered a beauty, the braves would fight over her and the winner would enjoy her body that night and perhaps, if she was pleasing, she might become a wife but that was rare. But Adam was basically ignored; the Indian slaves rejected him and the Osage children would have nothing to do with him. He realized he was a person of no status, of no importance; he wasn't even given a name. He initially thought he did have a name and every time Habazi would call out "tóa" he would go to her considering himself called. Months later, after he picked up the Osage language, he found that the word meant "this one," or "that one." And if he was referred to at all by anyone in the tribe, it was as tóa so that became his name.

Part of the reason Tóa was held in such low regard—other than his being a white slave and young, was that Habazi was a person of little status as well. She had no menfolk, no daughters, no one to take care of her. Her three sons had all died and so she had been given Adam to serve her. And as he grew, he did more for her, many times not even waiting to be told, making repairs to her wikiup, gathering firewood, hunting for food such as wild onions and berries so she would not have to depend on handouts on others. The other squaws of all ages, kept crops—corn, beans, squash, pumpkin patches. The women of one family would work on their section but Habazi had no female relatives either, later, the boy found out that she once had a daughter by marriage but both she and her child had died in childbirth.

Tóa also discovered that the food he received from Habazi was so bad, often stale as well as small in portion was that Habazi had to go about from wikiup to wikiup begging for food for herself. Tóa came to realize that she shared what she had been given with him. But yet she never showed him any affection, any overt kindness and the boy hid inside himself and closed off his feelings. He began to work on the garden and once Habazi saw him bringing water to the wilted bean plants, she also begged for seeds and the two worked side by side. What Tóa didn't know was that he was doing squaw work and that it only lowered his status but even if he had, he would gladly trade respect for a full belly.

And Tóa grew taller and stronger and every time the camp moved, which it did about once every two years, he became adept at building a new wikiup. The first year he was with the Wazhazhe, during a particularly bad storm where the lightning crackled nearby and the rain pounded and flooded the ground, Habazi waved him inside. From then on, he slept by the fire while Habazi, who snored to rival any man, slept across from him. And she seemed kinder.

The yellow dog had died and Tóa determined he would form no other bonds with either people or animals. He didn't want any more pain. There were certainly enough dogs in the village. Tóa often saw them mating, the male hanging over the back of the female but puppies rarely lived. Out of a litter of five, maybe two would survive, the others falling prey to the coyotes who soundlessly snuck into the encampment and snatched them, carrying them off. That was the way things were.

But what Tóa really wanted was a horse. He imagined that if he had a horse he would ride away one night and go back to…his imagination could go no further. The young man had no idea where he would go but he still entertained the idea of finding his father, finding the man who gave him life and then never came to take him back, of finding his father and confronting him—or worse. Maybe he would kill the man, get revenge for having been abandoned. Tóa saw how the Indians valued their sons, how they raised them and taught them survival skills, to find food in the direst of places and how to fight with spear and to make bows and arrows. Tóa would move close while a young brave was taught these skills and squat nearby, learning what he could. In his spare time, he practiced making arrow heads, gathering the cast-off flints and obsidian and shaping them on other stones until they seemed acceptable. He learned the right kind of wood for an arrow shaft, flexible but not weak, how to peel off bark and to attach feathers to the end. He kept his own stash of arrows under his blankets. Once Habazi came upon them when her foot caught the edge of his bedding and moved them a space; she shuffled now with her later years. Habazi looked at them and then at Tóa as he ate his meal of corn cakes and small pieces of flesh—a plump dove he had trapped. She then slowly bent over and readjusted his blankets and neither ever said anything about the hidden arrows. And the next night when he entered the wikiup with his arms full of firewood, a bow was laying on his blankets along with two knives—not knives used to prepare meals, women's knoves, but weapons. Tóa guessed they had been Habazi's husband's or sons', weapons of theirs she had kept and now gifted to him. He wanted to thank her but when he started to talk, Habazi told him that if he wanted to eat, he needed to use his mouth for food so nothing was said and life went on but only better because now Tóa could bring down deer and use Habazi's husband's knife to skin them. The hides protected the wikiup from sharp winds and the wolf furs from those he managed to kill with his bow and arrow, kept Tóa and Habazi warm during the winters. Although he couldn't provide as well as her male family members had, he often made the old woman smile and show her nearly toothless gums.

Tóa was invaluable to Habazi. Once he had found a sheep that must have wandered from a white man's wagon train and skinned it, presenting the fleecy skin to her as a gift although it still needed to be cured. Habazi often groaned and complained aloud that her bones ached from the hardness of the ground and the sheepskin, Tóa said, would ease the hardness. It did and Habazi was grateful. And Tóa was clever about finding food. Once he had finally won a horse, he would go out miles from camp and often see wagon trains. While the people slept, he would creep into their camps, careful of the look-outs, and steal food or small animals such as piglets or lambs. One afternoon, he had come across a calf that had been staked out to graze. It protested but by the time the owner had run to see if wolves had found it, Tóa and the calf were gone and the man was so upset, he never noticed the moccasin tracks or the sharp unshod horse hooves.

Tóa had grown to be a handsome young man. Even among the tall Osage he stood out. Although his early clothes were cast-offs from other young Wazhazhe, now that he hunted and brought home skins, Habazi made him leggings and shirts, even stitching small shells and other decorations on them. His hair grew long and shiny and Habazi would braid it for him, tying it off with a leather thong. She would talk about her sons, her husband, as her hands remembered their nimble movements of plaiting. She would relate how brave her sons had been and the eagle feathers they and her husband, Nonnunge, had earned; he was a great warrior, she often told Tóa. Some evenings, Habazi would still keen and weep about her loss and when she was this way, Tóa would leave her as he knew she was aware of nothing at those times but her deep loss.

One day when he had been with the tribe ten summers, Tóa was hunting and saw an Indian brave not from the tribe; he could tell by the markings on the horse that the warrior was Kiowa. The Osage warriors had returned just four days earlier with many Kiowa horses and women—they were enemies of the Wazhazhe. Tóa had sat in the darkness, not allowed within the circle, and quietly listened to the stories the warriors shared, reliving their victory. Only two Wazhzhe had died in the raid and their widows and mothers were given a portion of the spoils as compensation. The returning braves spoke of the bravery of the fallen men and Tóa learned many things that night.

The lone Kiowa seemed to be a scout to Tóa but that was not what caught his attention. It was the horse. It was a beautiful appaloosa. He wanted a horse, needed one. He no longer yearned to run away back to white civilization but he wanted a horse. It was the only way he could begin to earn any respect among the Osage braves—and a horse stolen from the enemy would bring even more prestige. The other children who were stolen from other Indian tribes could hope to be assimilated, to fight and have status but Tóa had little chance. No chance unless he had a horse.

Tóa crouched low, nocked his arrow and pulled back on his bowstring. He held his breath while his head and heart pounded. He knew he would have one chance. If he missed, the brave would definitely kill him. His muscles tensed and then he sprung up from the high grass. The riding brave swiveled his head toward the sound, turning his horse slightly, and Tóa released the arrow that flew and struck the Kiowa brave in the chest. The brave's eyes widened in surprise and then he fell. The horse pranced off a few yards and then went to cropping the grass. Its indifference surprised Tóa. But then he realized what he had done-he had killed a man. And he was slightly surprised that it didn't upset him; Tóa was jubilant—his first kill. And when he rode the horse into camp, the enemy dragged behind in the dirt, Tóa was met with silence, the silence of amazement and what he later realized was a begrudging respect. He walked the horse up to the chief and jumping down from his horse, he cut loose the corpse at his feet. Then Tóa, in a brazen move that might have caused him to be killed, grabbed the horse's main with one hand and swung himself up. He sat the horse. He had never really ridden one before this time and had only traveled at a walk. He wasn't quite sure how to manage riding any faster as the horse snorted, tossing its head, waiting for a tug at the rope rein that was around its lower jaw. But Tóa had studied others as they rode so he pulled on the rein and the horse's head turned and with pressure from his thighs and a stab of his heels, the horse loped away and out of the camp. And now he had a horse.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

Tóa was naturally swarthy but the sun had browned him and except for the lighter eyes, he could pass as an Indian until his voice deepened, his nights became plagued by shameful dreams, and his body grew dark hair. His shoulders and chest began to broaden and coarse hair spread over his chest. But since Tóa knew he wasn't a part of the Osage tribe, he learned to accept more and more of the physical differences. And if the others noticed, they made no indication by action or word. Only Habazi, in the close quarters of the wikiup, knew when to avert her eyes from the developing boy. And it caused her some amusement as it reminded her of her own sons' becoming warriors and developing the desires that all men had.

Habazi grew older and some nights, Tóa would fix her evening meal, crumbling a corn cake into a bowl and dampen it with a little mare's milk. Her hands would often shake as she took the cup from him and Tóa worried she would soon die. He wondered what would become of him then. But he had other things, another person to fill his mind and his heart—Mosane and his desire for her.

Mosane, whose name meant Arrow of Life, had caught his eye about two years earlier. But since he was a person of no status, Mosane did not deign to acknowledge him in any way. She was his age more or less and he had grown up around her. She had even been one of the children who had thrown dung, stones and garbage at him his first night. Since then, he had come to notice her as she grew, her hips rounding and her beasts beginning to mound beneath her buckskin dress. During the winter, she wore leggings underneath her gown but in the summer, her long, tan legs were shapely. Tóa felt a yearning for her that he didn't understand but he knew he wanted to press her lithe body against him, to taste her naked skin and whisper her name in the darkness. But as a person of no status, he would never be considered as a mate and never be able to court her. But in the darkness as Habazi lay snoring, Tóa would imagine the sensations of lying with Mosane, of stroking her dark hair and touching her warm, hidden parts and his head would fill with heat as well as his body and he would feel as if he would die if he found no relief. He did not die.

The camp was troubled and there was talk of moving—moving a great distance. A huge bear, a spirit of evil, was attacking the Wazhazhe. The shaman cast spells of protection, sang songs to the gods, the women danced and still the spirit bear attacked the camp. At night, they would be awakened by the scream of a horse as the Spirit Bear attacked and although the men would quickly gather with their weapons, the bear and the horse would be gone, just blood and a swath on the ground where the horse had been dragged away was all that remained.

The men set out in hunting parties but although they could often hear the bear moving, hear it's voice and smell its fur, not once could they catch sight of it; it was able to vanish into the air, become invisible and therefore, unable to be killed. A child disappeared and although there was no noise, no screams, no cries, all the people knew it was the Spirit Bear. The father of the child, a prominent warrior of the Wazhazhe, Kasabbe, set out alone to kill the Spirit Bear. He was asked by his grieving squaw not to go; better they begin to pack and leave the grounds that had been so fertile. They could all be better served that way.

His family agreed. Apparently the Spirit Bear wanted the land for himself. The wife begged the chief to forbid Kasabbe but the chief was silent on the matter. So Kassabe set out on his own to avenge his son.

The next afternoon as Tóa and Habazi tended their section of crops, wailing broke out among the women of Kassabe's clan. Tóa moved toward the center of the camp. He saw a mangled body, one arm missing, part of the abdominal cavity gone, slash marks having torn open the breechcloth and leggings. It was Kasabbe. Not only had he been killed by the Spirit Bear that had been slaughtering horses and taken a small child, but the warrior had been partially eaten and then left as carrion for scavengers.

Mourning ceremonies enveloped the camp. Habazi was too old to participate, to sit up all night and keen and sing with the other grieving women. Tóa couldn't join in with the braves and tell of the courageous exploits of Kasabbe, to witness how many of the enemy he had killed, how he had fought bravely and fearlessly. The children sat outside the ring of women siting a respectful distance around the ring of men and heard sorrow expressed for the loss of the great man.

Tóa knew the ceremonies would continue for another two days so he caught a small rabbit for Habazi; it would serve for a few days. He also brought water from the creek for Habazi—more than she would need. He told her that he was setting off to find the Spirit Bear; he was not a Wazhazhe and therefore, may be able to see the evil creature. He told her he would be gone a few days but that he would soon return. Habazi looked at him although her vision was failing and nodded although a sadness filled her. She had lost all her men and now she was going to lose Tóa—but that was the way of the world. She reached out a claw-like hand and Tóa squatted beside her. Habazi placed her palm on the young man's bowed head and called on the spirits of her husband and her sons to go with Tóa and to hunt alongside him, to find and kill the Spirit Bear. Tóa wasn't certain about the belief in spirits, but he had heard that when one is old such as Habazi and closer to death, they talk with the spirits who have already gone and the spirits listen and do their bidding. The spirits want to keep the people they loved happy until it is time for them to join those who wait beyond the sky.

The first sign of the bear was its scent, it's strong musky, warm odor that filled the air. Tóa's appaloosa shied, almost unseating him, and backed up, wanting to turn about and leave, to go another way. Tóa pressed his legs against the horse's ribs to stay on and to urge it forward. He had become an excellent horseman but he had not yet experienced a determined, balking horse. Tóa tried to control the horse which kept turning in circles, pulling against the hemp rope tied around its lower jaw and over and behind its ears.

"Easy, boy, easy." Tóa murmured but the horse wouldn't be calmed and its flanks trembled. And then Tóa heard a "whuffing" from the trees—the bear had scented him. Tóa turned his horse and when he was a few yards, he dismounted, speaking calmly to the animal. He then tied it securely to a heavy, fallen log on the ground. If necessary, the horse could go but it would be dragging the branch with it and easy to track. That is if Tóa lived after the encounter with the bear.

With his bow and a quiver of arrows attached to his back, Tóa quietly walked toward the sound of the bear. He could hear it breaking through the trees, whuffing again as it scented him. He had no need to go further, Tóa realized; the Spirit Bear would come to him. So he waited, his heart so loud he felt the bear must hear it as it reverberated through the trees. This was a Spirit Bear, a totem that was strong but Tóa wanted to kill the creature; it filled his mind and his blood and his eyes searched for the creature. Tóa knew he would be someone to the tribe if he brought down the bear—a someone who could court Mosane. So he waited, sweat coursing over his body, his mouth dry, his eyes still searching the trees before him. And then he saw the bear suddenly come crashing through the trees and stand up on its rear legs, roaring at him.

The youth fell back, startled and struck through with horror. The Spirit Bear was huge—larger than any animal he believed he had ever seen. Tóa had seen bears from a distance and their lumbering, rolling gait belied their fearsome presence. Saliva slung from the Spirit Bear's curled back lips, exposing its red gums and huge white teeth—each one like a warrior's knife blade. But its claws—Tóa saw each curved, vicious claw shine like obsidian and just as sharp.

Tóa scuttled back and then got to his feet. He pulled an arrow from the quiver and nocked it, his hands shaking. The arrow dropped from the bow. He pulled out another and barely nocked it before the bear dropped on all fours and began to barrel toward him, it's mouth open, roaring. Tóa pulled back on the bowstring and too hurried to take aim, released the arrow. It hit the bear's open mouth. The bear roared again and stood up, pawing at the arrow that had landed in his mouth, the tip penetrating the soft back of its throat. But Tóa had chosen the right wood, peeled it and seasoned it and the arrow would not break; the bear snapped down on it and the wood shattered. Tóa watched—amazed as the saliva that dripped from the bear's mouth turned crimson and foamy. It was as a dream—not reality. But then Tóa came to himself. He pulled another arrow and nocked it, his hands still shaking but he talked to himself, telling himself that he is someone—he is not going to stay "that one"—Tóa.

Tóa pulled the bowstring back and waited, aimed and then released the arrow and it flew through the air, singing as it went and struck the standing bear in the chest. Quickly he drew another arrow and let it fly. It hit the bear under its left front leg. The bear roared, dropped back to all fours and began to take after Tóa who turned and ran. As he ran, Tóa heard the chuffing sound of the bear as it pursued him. He could hear the beast gaining on him even though the trees were close together and Tóa leaped and jumped between them, not following a straight line. Then a heavy sound, a thud echoed and all was silent. Tóa ran on a few more yards and then turned, his chest heaving. He couldn't seem to fill his fiery lungs. But the bear had fallen and except for small jerks of its paws, it lay still. Tóa crouched and waited, regaining his composure but suddenly his bowels turned watery and he quickly pulled off his breechcloth to relieve himself. And this was the result of fear, he told himself. The body rids itself of fear in many ways and this was his way at this time. He had killed the Spirit Bear, brought it down and he promised himself that when he told the story of the hunt, this part, his crouching in the forest and his insides cramping, the smell befouling the air even worse than the bear's scent, would not be part of the story. But he wondered, how many of the warriors would know, having experienced the same reaction themselves. And Tóa realized that was the way of men. All the exploits the warriors related to each other hid the fact that all men know fear—no one is fearless and everyone has a body that keeps them humble and reminds them they are not gods, not able to do anything that any other man could not do.

Except for the dogs barking at him, the tribe stood and watched as Tóa rode through the camp to the widow's wikiup, bare-chested as his shirt held something—what, they weren't sure, but it was soaked with blood and large black flies buzzed about it. Slowly the people followed him until he stopped his horse in front of the widow's home and sprung from his horse; Tóa was exhausted, his arms aching from cutting through the bear's thick joints—stab, twist and slice-stab, twist and slice—but he wouldn't show his weariness.

Witega, Kasabe's widow still in mourning, came out when one of the women called to her. She stood in the doorway while Tóa kneeled and unwrapped his ruined shirt, exposing the huge head of the Spirit Bear and the four paws with their vicious claws. An intake of breath came from the crowd, almost simultaneously. "This one" had killed the Spirit Bear.

Unknown to Tóa, the tribal chief, Honga, who had never acknowledged his presence as he never acknowledged any of the slaves except to dole them out as he had that evening he first brought a terrified Adam into the camp and given him to Habazi, put a hand on Tóa's shoulder.

"You have been as a breeze in our camp—one who is of no substance—but now you have done something that many warriors had yet to do, kill the Spirit Bear that was destroying our tribe and was hunting us, seeing us as his prey, wanting us off this land. Now we have his teeth that ripped the flesh of our brothers and children, the claws that felled our horses and my people are grateful."

Honga bent down and gathered up the four huge paws that were amost the length of a man's forearm, the pads thick and leathery, and handed them to Tóa.

"These are yours—you have won them for yourself. And you have also won a name—Wasape Sabe—and we have another voice in the tribe, one that shall be heeded as the sound of thunder signals rain. Now it is your tribe and we are your people." And the chief walked away and the others now looked at him and saw him. He was not "that one" or "this one" anymore. He was Wasape Sabe—Black Bear.

Now that he had a name, young Wasape Sabe had status, was a person among the Osage and wore a feather for his bravery. With an awl-like tool, Habazi had made holes through the bear's claws and strug them for Wasape Sabe to wear. He had gone back and skinned the bear. It was tedious, exhausting work but he now had a bearskin he had won and would have a warm fur cloak to wear in the snows. Caring for the garden was women's work and Wasape Sabe knew it was below his status but Habazi was too old and too weak to carry water or to turn over the ground so he still did it. And Habazi was grateful. She patted him on his bent back as he hoed and told him that now he was her son; now he cared for her not because he had no choice but because she was his mother. At last, Wasape Sabe thought, I have found a parent. And because of him, Habazi was again a person of rank in the village.

One evening as Wasape Sabe and Habazi ate their last meal of the day, he mentioned that he had noticed a young girl among the women, Mosane. Yes, Habazi said, she is a lovely girl.

"I have a cloak now," Wasapesabi said. A cloak was needed to court a woman and his bear cloak made of the skin of the Spirit Bear, would be impressive if he wrapped it about Mosane and himself.

"It would make this person happy to have a daughter. Mosane is a dutiful daughter to her mother. She would be dutiful to me. I think if she lay down with you, there would be many children, many cubs born to Wasape Sabe."

He smiled and they ate in silence. The next morning Habazi said, "Does this girl we spoke about, this…what was her name?" Habazi remembered but she had to behave as if the possible courting was of no importance, not even important enough for her to remember the details.

"It is Mosane," Wasape Sabe said as he ate. "She is a skinny girl but this one finds her decent. She has a pleasant face." Mosane was only fourteen but it was time for her to marry and Wasape Sabe was certain she would prefer him to anyone else.

"Has the girl Mosane turned her eyes to you?" Habazi continued to look down at her food as she picked up the shreds of meat. Wasape Sabe tore her food into small pieces so that she could better chew. Soon, if she lost many more teeth, he knew he would have to mash it to a pulp so that she just roll it about in her mouth to taste and then swallow.

His heart thumped—his breathing stepped up. Mosane had looked at him, shyly glancing at him with new eyes now that he could be her choice, now that he was a person. And when he had returned her gaze with a new boldness, she had dropped her eyes but smiled as young girls are wont to do when they are unsure of themselves. But to young Wasape Sabe, she was like the long-legged deer he saw in the forest—too quick and fast to be caught; Mosane must be lured close with gentle words and soft touches. And he wanted to touch her. The thought of wrapping her in his furs at night, to know the softness of her smooth skin excited him and he was afraid of giving himself away.

"I have not really noticed her looking," he said nonchalantly. "Perhaps today, if she walks close, I will see if she will consider me."

"Yes. If she is to be with you, it is necessary her eyes shine on you." And that was the last they said. Until the next morning.

At their first meal, again Habazi spoke as she placed the corn cakes in front of him. "I would pull the hairs from the husband's and my son's faces. I will do the same for you should you choose."

Wasape Sabe knew that his face was sprouting hairs and that it was noticed. Since he first came into the camp, he observed how mornings, many warriors sat in the sun while their women used a small tweezer made of flexible wood to pluck any hairs from their faces. But Wasape Sabe also knew that as young as he was, he had far more hair on his face than any of them. It was also growing heavily on his arms and legs as well as his chest and back. Just the previous day he had heard a comment among passing women that when he finally took a mate, she would have bear cubs instead of children. It had shamed him although the women giggled at one another but he felt they were laughing at him.

And then there was his hair. He wore it pulled away from his face as he painfully learned when he first starting practicing with a bow and arrow; a bowstring pulled back next to the face often caught hair and it was ripped from the head. The Osage men usually wore their hair in a scalplock, the hair slowly plucked from the sides as they grew from boys to men. And the warriors with the most prestige wore grand porcupine quills, headdresses worn like a crest on the top of their heads and often decorated with feathers.

So Wasape Sabe sat in the sun while Habazi fetched a pair of tweezers and plucked the hairs from his face. He bore it stoically until she began to pull the hairs on his upper lip. Tears sprung to his eyes and he used his force of will to keep his head still and not pull away. He tried to change his focus from the pain to the thought of Mosane and her doe eyes and sweet mouth. She would be his and he would suffer anything to win her. But he knew that her family would have to accept him as well; being a person wasn't enough. He would have to start winning her family over with gifts.

Another week passed until he saw Mosane glance back at him. Then she dropped her gaze and walked off into the trees. She was carrying a clay water jar and he knew where she was going—to the creek that rambled among the trees. He waited so to not cause attention and then slowly walked in a similar direction; he would follow her path once he was hidden in the trees.

Mosane was kneeling by the water, filling the jar. And he came upon her. Wasepe Sabe realized he didn't know what to say, having never spoken to her before. But she spoke first but not to him—to the air about her.

"It would be helpful to have a person carry this heavy jar back to my family. They would look with favor upon the one who would do so. But I am here all alone. Perhaps I should be frightened. But then Wasape Sabe, the brave and strong person, has rid us of the spirit bear, the bear that could not be seen, could not be found, could not be killed, so that fear is gone from my mind."

Although Wasape Sabe was sure the jar was full, Mosane still help it under the water. He knew she had given him an opening to speak to her but his voice seemed to stick in his throat and he croaked out her name. "Mosane." She turned toward him and then ducked her head out of modesty. He continued, his voice becoming stronger. "This one has come to help carry the jar. He hopes you will look upon him with gentleness, that he will find favor in your eyes." His heart thumped with fear of rejection. What if she spoke harshly to him, said that she didn't want to lie with a hairy bear, to give birth to children covered with black fur. He determined that if she answered that way, he would endure Habazi plucking every hair on his head and back and he himself would pull the hairs from his chest and limbs.

Mosane sat the full jar on the side of the creek, stood and waited with dropped eyes while he walked up and took the jar. Then she looked at him. "It is you I have thought of—even before you became a person. I look upon you with much favor, I…" she reached out and her fingertips stroked the curly, rough hairs creeping out of the V-shaped slit of his neckline.

"I quiver beneath your touch," Wasape Sabe said, "like a raw horse does between the strong thighs of a warrior. You easily tame me with your gentle fingers—light as the spring breeze. I will do your bidding, Mosane—gladly—and ask for nothing more than a look at your lovely face that brightens my life as the sun does the world."

She looked up at him with adoration. "I will willingly give you more than my face—all of me will be yours to do with as you will in a few moons. You will be a great warrior, Wasape Sabe, and I would be most happy if you would choose me to travel life's path alongside you."

His breathing became ragged and he forced himself not to pull the small, young girl to him. She looked up at him and his desire for her caused him fright; he knew what white men did to Osage women they had captured, had heard the stories of how they would cut away the clothing and hold the women down and one after the other, force themselves upon her only to cut her throat once their desire was slaked. And he knew that he could do the same thing if he gave in to the raging urges of his body. _But_ , Wasape Sabe told himself, _I am a person—not a white man._


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

Wasape Sabe carried the water jug by its handle while Mosane walked modestly beside him. They moved in silence back to the camp. Wasape Sabe smiled to himself. _This will be the first time we show ourselves and our desire for one another to the camp. I will help the family and Mosane will tell her parents of her preference for me. Soon I will take my bear cloak and embrace her in its warmth and weight._ He felt his desire as a heat as the blood surged through his body. It was a warm day nut he was wearing his tall boots, his breechclout and his new buckskin shirt with the beads that Habazi had sewn on once he became "Black Bear." He considered that he would remove it once he was back in camp but he had wanted Mosane to see his new finery that Habazi had spent many hours creating.

"My new son must be beautiful in all ways. It has been long but these old fingers still remember how to decorate a warrior's dress. I will make a new breechclout as well as leggings and I will mark them with the signs for the Spirit Bear that you have become." So Wasape Sabe was confident that he looked his most handsome.

He turned to ask Mosane if she had mentioned her favor of him to her parents yet when a sound echoed through the air, followed by another and another and them more. Screams and shrieks followed and Wasape Sabe dropped the jug that shattered on the forest floor. He ran toward the camp and Mosane followed.

He knew the sound, had heard it many times as a child on the wagon train; it was the report of a rifle, a white man's weapon. There had been stories of Comanche owning such weapons, having taken them from soldiers or homesteaders they slaughtered or by trading with the Comancheros, but the Comanche usually stayed in the southwest. Had the Kiowa been given the "fire sticks" as they were called? The two tribes had been known to be on friendly terms as long as they stayed in their separate territories but both were enemies of the Wazhazhe.

Once out of the tree line, Wasape Sabe froze. Wazhazhe warriors lay dead on the ground, many women and children also lay motionless and the wailing of a few infants, some still in the arms or strapped to the backs of their fallen mothers, mixed in with the rifle shots and screams.

Mosane gasped and then ran to her family's wikiup but she didn't make it—she fell to the ground and Wasape Sabe saw part of her skull fly away as a rifle shell shattered it. And then he ran to her fallen body and cradled it. Let the unseen killers shoot him as well—he didn't care—just clasped her limp body and howled of his grief while all about him, the world he had come to know was destroyed.

~ 0 ~

Wasape Sabe stood with the other survivors of the raid; they were a small group. About six white men stood before them—not soldiers but from what Wasape Sabe could tell, they were what was called trappers, men who trapped and then skinned animals and sold the valuable furs. They also raided Indian camps and stole furs. One had been brought into the camp a few years ago and Wasape Sabe who was still of no status, still referred to as "Tóa," hid in the dark while the white man was staked out naked and the warriors sang about the men they had killed and how, now they would destroy the magic of the men who were stealing the beasts the Wahzhazhe had been given by the Great Spirit.

That man was weak, Tóa saw that. He had cried and begged and the boy remembered enough of the language to understand that he begged for mercy, gave promises to never enter the territory again if they would only free him. But the boy knew it was useless and through the night, the man howled in pain and ether begged for mercy or cursed his tormentors and begged for death. He would pass out intermittently but the Osage were a patient people. After all, they would sit waiting hours until they had the right shot for a bear or elk. This was nothing—they would wait indefinitely for their captive to gain consciousness again but it only took minutes.

The boy, Tóa, had hidden under his blankets and covered his ears from the unnatural screams, but Habazi had pulled him out from under the blankets and belittled him for his cowardice—like all white men, he had no courage. Then she pushed him and told him to get firewood; their fire was low and so the boy went out into the darkness. He couldn't understand why he was made to look for tinder and kindling in the dark, why the whole camp was awake and active, women, children and men and it was only later he understood that an enemy is an enemy of all the people—whether it be one person or a hundred. But all the boy could think of at the time was that if he had been a man instead of a boy when the Wazhazhe had come upon him, he would have been killed by the people, maybe in the same way as the trapper was being killed now, instead of being no one and having to serve an old widow with no sons. And when the sun finally came up, there wasn't much left of the captive and he had finally died—something he had been begging for as the night changed its course to day. And Tóa forced himself to look at the body with no hands, no feet, no privates, no nose or ears. He didn't even look human. Apparently, a small fire had been set on his chest as there was a charred hole there. And Tóa found he had little sympathy for the man; he had a weak spirit. All white men, according to the Osage, had weak spirits, poor magic but strutted like the wild turkeys the Wazhazhe plucked, roasted and ate.

But these trappers smiled and laughed to one another. Wasape Sabe looked at who was left. He realized that he was probably not killed earlier because he had been kneeling, cradling Mosane's body in his arms. He regretted not having been killed because he was ready to die since all his people were dead except for a few other youths about his age, some women, girls and children who had been routed from the wikiups. Many looked fearful but Wasape Sabe was determined that he would keep his good magic, his proud spirit and they could torment him all they liked but he would not cry for mercy or beg for his life. But his bowels felt watery and his knees weak. He didn't realize that Mosane's blood stained his cheek and neck.

"Well, well, well…what do we have left?" one of the men said, approaching a young squaw. He grabbed her and pulled her away from the others. She braced her heels, slapped at him, attempting to resist and Wasape Sabe moved to help her but felt a thud that dropped him to his knees—a rifle butt had struck him in the back of the neck. Pain radiated down his spine and nausea overwhelmed him but he swallowed it; he wasn't going to vomit in the dirt in front of the men. If they were going to kill him, he was going to die bravely; he was one of the Osage people, the Wazhazhe, he was Wasape Sabe—the one who had killed the Spirit Bear and would not shame those who had died bravely before him. So he slowly stumbled back to his feet. The young squaw was dragged a few yards away where one of the men took his pleasure in the manner of animals. It confirmed what Wasabe Sabe thought—the men were bestial creatures, evil and crude. All white men were like that, he was sure because he himself felt the intense heat of his blood for Mosane and although there had been times he would forget he was white while among the Wazhezhe, he was often reminded, especially when he changed or bathed and noticed again how his loins were pale as a fish belly and the usually hidden hair was curly and grew more plentiful with every new moon.

One trapper, the one who seemed in charge as the others looked to him before they acted, even the man who took the squaw, walked in front of the group that still stood. Wasape Sabe was still unsure on his feet but he drew himself up high. The man stopped in front of him. Then he laughed and turned to the others.

"Look at this. We got us a white boy here though he stinks like an Indian. Look at him." He jerked Wasape Sabe forward; he stumbled but regained his feet. Wasape Sabe stepped back closer to the remaining villagers. "I ain't never seen an Injun growin' hair all over like this."

"Maybe his momma done it with a bear, was bent over plantin' corn when one came up behind her," one of the men said and they laughed among themselves at the crude joke. But Wasape Sabe understood their words; he was surprised how much he still remembered of their language but to respond would be to give himself away. He looked beyond the men staring at them, assessing the captives, at the trapper with the young squaw. The trapper had stood up, adjusted himself and the squaw began to rise but he grabbed her by the hair and bending slightly, slit her throat. He dropped her head and she grabbed her neck but the blood seeped through her fingers and she fell back on the ground. Then he turned and walked back to the group, wiping the blade on his pants' leg. He picked up his rifle again.

Wasape Sabe looked at those about him. The smallest girl hid behind the legs of the others. An infant wailed on the ground in the camp and one man raised his rifle and fired to end the noise.

"Damn Injun brat. What're we gonna do about the rest of 'em—especially that white boy?"

"That white boy might get us a reward. Maybe somebody'll pay to get him back." The man approached Wasape Sabe. "What's your name, boy?" Wasape Sabe said nothing, just narrowed his eyes. "Don't act like you don't understand me; I can see in your eyes that you do. Now what's your name?"

He pulled himself up straighter. "Wasape Sabe."

"Yeah, and I'm goddamn Cochise. What's your name, boy?"

Wasape Sabe looked through the man who motioned to another and a shot rang out and one of the young men fell. Wasape Sabe was jolted by the noise and one of the children began to cry. Another shot rang out and then another two people fell, the crying child and a young woman. There were only about ten of them left standing.

"I'm gonna ask you again—what's your name, boy?"

His heart thumped with a mixture of fear and hate. "Wasape Sabe." The man motioned again and one rifle shot rang out after another. The few survivors now tried to run out of fear, blindly, but were shot down one after the other and only Wasape Sabe was left standing. He raised his arms to bring his fists crashing down on the man before him but never had the chance as the swung rifle butt hit him in the jaw and then he too went down.

His ears rang as the pain shot through his face and down his neck and up to the top of his skull. He moaned and tried to rise but the rifle butt came down again and struck him in the back of the head. It was as if a whole mountain had tumbled onto him—his nerves tingling and his appendages jerking. He even felt the uncomfortable warmth as he wet his loincloth. His humiliation was almost complete—he knew that. And he was helpless.

When Wasape Sabe came to, he had been pulled a distance from where he had gone down and the smell of smoke filled his lungs. The trappers had obviously gathered all of the furs that were in good condition including the skin of the Spirit Bear, and set fire to the wikiups. Many of the corpses were still lying cold on the ground and Wasape Sabe rose to his feet. He became overwhelmed at the destruction of all his hopes, of all he cherished and as all the Wazhezhe did whenever a loss was too great to bear, his grief came pouring out in wails and in a song of sadness and grief. He dropped to his knees and began to tear at his hair and looked about for anything with which to cut himself.

"Shut up!" the leader of the group said. "Stop that goddamn caterwauling or I swear to hell I'll shoot you right between them eyes of yours."

Wasape Sabe couldn't hear the man's voice—it was just a noise in the back of his head, nothing but sound and he continued to wail all the dead and especially the loss of his "mother," Habazi and of his love, Mosani.

The man grabbed him by the shirt and jerked him up. "I said shut the hell up!"

Wasape Sabe swung out at the trapper, longing to kill him with his own hands, to rip out the man's tongue, to slice off his man parts and shove them down his throat. He felt the solidity of the man's face against his fist and the man stepped back and after the intial shock wore off, the man rubbed where Wasape Sabe had struck him.

"Stupid bastard," the man said and with a well-placed blow from the trapper, Wasape Sabe reeled backwards and hit the ground. And then he was beaten until his whole body ached. He tried to pull himself away but all the men took turns kicking him and spitting on him.

In the morning, one eye swollen shut, Wasape Sabe's hands were tied in front of him and a long line of rope tied to the saddle horn of the leader who was called Zachariah. Wasabe Sabe half stumbled along while the trappers rode. A travois piled high with the furs they had stolen, was drawn by one pony and the string of the Wazhazhe Indian ponies was led by another rider.

It was that night that Wasape Sabe received the name Esau. The men sat about their campfire drinking backwoods corn liquor, Wasape Sabe refusing to eat the bits of food the trappers tossed to him after their meal. One talked about how they should have kept the young girls and then they entertained each other with stories of what they would have done to the young girls. "And I guarantee they would've liked it too, 'specially after I got to 'im. I woulda showed 'em why the white man is superior!" He grabbed his crotch, shaking himself and the others laughed.

"Yeah we shoulda brought along some of the Injun girls 'stead of Esau over there."

"Esau? He tell you his name?"

"No—I swear your brains are made of horse shit. Esau was that one in the Bible—you know that one what was born hairy. Esau. And his brother—what was his name? I heard that story lots of times in church…yeah, Jacob. His brother Jacob done steal Esau's birthright."

"What the hell you talkin' about?"

"In the Bible. Didn't you have any Bible teachin'?"

" Course I did. I know 'bout Cain and Abel and Moses and all them others. I know all 'bout how God gave man…can't remember the 'zact words but I know God says we can kill all the animals we want 'cause we're men. See, I know my Bible."

"The you should know about Esau. There were two brothers—twins-and Esau was born first and he was all covered in hair—grew up even more hairy. Anyway, one time he was hungry after workin' all day and his brother Jacob said that he'd give his brother some beans iffen Esau would hand over his right of being born first. So he did and then Jacob inherited all their pappy's lands and money."

"So what you're sayin' is we should call him Esau 'cause he's so hairy or 'cause he's so stupid—gave up bein a white man to be a stinkin' Indian? But I guess either way, can't think of why not. All he says is that he's that Wasape shit…."

So from then on, whenever he was referred to, Wasape Sabe was called Esau and he eventually claimed it as his name. It ended up being more fitting than he could know.


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

Esau pulled off his shirt and placed it over a rail in the barn. It was a good-sized barn and he found the odors pleasant, the mixture of manure and leather and pine wood chips There were bales of green hay in the loft and stacked in corners along with sacks of oats, one open with a large scoop stuck into the grain. A sack of corn was beside it and one unopened sack was leaking oats at the bottom. Mice had apparently gnawed a hole and enjoyed the grain.

An orange tabby, moved elegantly along the top of a rail, it's tail standing straight up and by its over-sized, scarred head, Esau knew it was a male and an aggressive one at that. He considered how many polecats or coyote the cat had tangled with over the years.

"You haven't been doing your job," Esau told him. "You let the mice get in the oats. Step it up or I'll snap your neck and find a better mouser." The cat just negligently stretched on its narrow perch, then jumped to the ground and padded out the door. Esau chuckled. He had been hired to take care of matters on the ranch, things that ranch hands would do if they were there so he set about to do them.

Three horses and two cows were inside stalls so he turned them out into the corral next to the barn. One of the horses, a chestnut stallion with a beautiful head, sharp conformation and three stockings, pranced about uneasily; he wasn't comfortable in the enclosed place with the cows, moving quickly away from them. Esau wondered if the horse was kept as stud or if he was ridden. But he was beautiful.

Esau glanced over at his horse still hitched close to the impressive house and considered unsaddling the horse and bringing it into the corral but reconsidered; it may be seen as presumptuous. So after pumping fresh water into the horse trough for the animals in the corral and tossing in hay to keep the cows busy, he went about mucking out stalls, setting in fresh hay and spreading new wood chips on the floor. There was a mountain of them behind the barn. Esau had never seen such an abundance of chips just as he seemed to see abundance everywhere he looked—especially of beauty. He wondered if the people who lived there appreciated what surrounded them.

It was hot work, even with both the front and back barn doors open creating a breezeway. His back was bent to the door when he heard a voice and swung about. A man in his early 20's with a sweet face stood inside the front opening and although the Osage were tall people, Esau had never seen a man that tall and big. He wasn't fat although he could easily be if not that he worked on a ranch. But he was big. Like Uncle Gunnar. And like Uncle Gunnar, he had a gentleness to his eyes and seemed to smile easily. And his hat was tall—battered and sweat-stained but tall, what was called a ten-gallon hat. On a smaller man, it would look ridiculous, would be a source of ridicule but on this man with his broad shoulders and open face, it fit.

"Hop Sing said there was a new hired man outside so I'm guessin' that's you." The man approached Esau and smiling put out his hand, a huge hand. "I'm Hoss Cartwright."

Esau stared, unable to momentarily breathe. Hoss. This was Hoss. Hoss Cartwright. Inger had given birth to a boy.

Hoss stared at his hand that still remained outstretched. "I know it ain't the cleanest hand—I been helpin' take the horns off steers but…"

Esau breathed and took his brother's hand, shaking it. "My name's Esau." His voice sounded odd to his own ears—strained and choked.

"Esau, huh?" Hoss grinned wider. "I ain't never known no one named that, like no one ever meets anyone named Cain or Satan. Ain't he the hairy one in the Bible? Gave away his birthright or somethin' like that?"

"So I've been told," Esau said, still taking in the sight of the man who he was sure was his brother even though they bore no resemblance to one another.

Hoss looked at the man and decided the name fit; a mass of curly black hair matted his chest and swirled about to aim down to his waistband. Black hair also covered his lower arms and even swathed around his sides; his face showed at least a two-days growth of stubble. "Why that Esau would want to be the firstborn, I can't figure. Firstborn's gotta do just about everything—it ain't easy. Hell, I'd trade with Joe to be second-born any day."

Esau was too moved to speak so he remained silent, still holding the shovel. Hoss was a bit uneasy at being met with silence. But then that was preferable many times over someone who talks a blue streak.

"Joe's my little brother. Well, he's little compared to me so just to get at him, I call 'im Little Joe. What you're doin' are his chores though he won't complain—he tries to get outta doin' 'em ever chance he gets. I guess you met 'im in town when you were hired. Right?" Hoss became more cautious. "You did get hired, didn't you?"

"Yes. Ben Cartwright hired me to do…chores. I'm not a drover. He hired me to stay back on the ranch and…well, I've been shoveling shit and cleaning up…" Esau stood silent again.

"I notice you got Indian boots. You part Indian or do you kill Indians?"

"Neither one. I…lived with Indians for a few years, the Wazhazhe—Osage-in Oklahoma Territory—guess it's broken up into separate territories now. It's been a long time."

"Well, don't know you're better off livin' with white people. I've seen a lot of 'em do bad things and hell, all I wanta do is live peaceful-like—don't understand what makes a man mean. But welcome to the Ponderosa. I'll make room for you in the bunkhouse, I guess. Pull in another mattress…"

"You father said I could sleep in the barn. I'd prefer that anyway, that is if no one minds."

"I don't see why anyone would. In the tack room, there's…"

"I saw it," Esau said. "That cot'll do me fine."

"Okay. Well…that dapple your'n?" Hoss motioned with his head

"Yes. I took him from a dead man." Esau watched Hoss' face. Would he cringe or look upon the new hired hand with admiration, thinking he killed the man? But Hoss only sighed as if he wanted to hear no more about it.

"That's one way to get a horse, I guess. You can bring 'im in at night, stall 'im if you like." Esau nodded and Hoss, his hands shoved down in his pockets, glanced around. Esau had done a far better job tending the barn than Joe ever had but then Joe just gave it a "lick and a promise" as Pa always said. "Well, Pa and Joe'll be back from town soon. Biscuit, he's the bunk house cook and handles the chuck wagon on the drive, well, he's out with the men gathering cattle. Guess you'll be eatin' with us, seein' you're all alone. Might want to wash up once they ride into the yard 'cause dinner'll be ready soon after. Anything else you need?"

"No. I'm fine but if it's all the same, I'd prefer not to eat at your table."

Hoss was thrown, not quite sure if he and his family had just been insulted. "Oh, well, I s'ppose a man's got a right to eat with whoever he wants to even if it's just himself. I'll bring you out somethin' then." Hoss looked down, his lips compressed in confusion. He didn't understand what he had done, if anything, or what his father had done to make this man not want to break bread with them but whatever reason the man had, he obviously wanted nothing to do with them. "I'll be back later then with your grub."

Now that Hoss had left, Esau felt the need to sit down. He rested on a stack of hay bales. That was Hoss, the brother who had taken his place. All Esau's hopes about teaching his new brother to fish and run and play games had been for nothing. He felt again like the small boy who had cried for his father and Inger, the small boy whose heart turned to stone when he believed that his father had abandoned him for the other child on the way. He wanted to hate Hoss but he couldn't; Esau found he liked his brother. But that didn't mitigate his hate for the man who cared so little for him, for the child of his loins, that he never thoroughly searched for him, never bothered to find him. And because of that, Esau had had his birthright taken from him by his own father and handed to his younger brother. He should be the one second in line for everything, not Hoss and he shouldn't be relegated to a hired hand and to sleep on a cot in a back room of the barn. But, Esau told himself, he didn't want those things, didn't want the house and the land or a fancy chestnut mount—he had all that he needed. But not all that he wanted. But that would come.

Esau was washing himself in the horse trough, using a cloth to wash under his arms and in other places. His beard felt rough and uncomfortable; after a certain length, it began to itch. His razor and other supplies were in his saddlebags along with his money which he had now hidden under the cot's thin, worn mattress in the tack room; the lump made by the money was just another one he would sleep on.

The sound of horses' hooves caused him to raise his head, his black hair glistening from the water. He pulled on his buckskin shirt and stood to meet the man who was probably his father—and the one who was more than likely his brother.

Ben and Joe Cartwright rode up, Joe on a paint pony.

"Glad to see you found us, Esau?" Ben dismounted. "Joe, bed down the horses." He held his reins out to his son.

"But, Pa, you hired him to…"

"Joe, it's your job around here. Now bed down the horses and feed them-and make sure you rub them down well." Ben wagged his finger at the boy.

Esau watched as Joe resignedly and with surprising good humor, accepted his task. "Yes, sir. C'mon boys," he said to the horses as he led both of them to the barn, the horses more than eager to enter. "I'm gonna wash behind your ears and then sing you to sleep with a horsie lullabye."

"I already put oats and hay in the food troughs." Esau waited.

"Joe'll be happy it's one less thing he has to do. So you've kept busy? I'm pleased."

"You hired me and when I'm hired, I do the job—no matter what it is." The two men stared uneasily at one another. Ben wondered if there was a subtext to what Esau had said. Was he saying he would take an illegal task if asked to? But maybe it was just an innocent comment.

"Have you ridden this way before?" Ben asked. He again felt uncomfortable around the dark-haired man. There was an aura of danger but as to whom the menace was geared, he couldn't discern.

"No. I've done a lot of traveling in my day but I've never been this way before."

The idea that Esau's face might be plastered on a wanted poster somewhere flitted through Ben's mind; he'd have to flip through them the next time he was in Roy Coffee's office; not all of the "dodgers" were up on the sheriff's wall.

Hoss came sauntering out of the house, smiling broadly.

"I take it you two already met?" Ben asked Esau before Hoss joined them.

"Yes," was the curt answer.

"Bout time you two came home. Hop Sing's been waving around that cleaver and cursin' that his roast ducks'll be ruined. Accordin' to him, a duck's only crispy for a short time—then it's garbage only fit for the pigs."

"Ducks?" Esau asked.

"Yeah, one for me and one for them two. Soon's food's on the table, I'll bring you out a plate. Hop Sing makes these noodles that taste better'n any egg noodles an old maid could make tryin' to win a husband."

"No, No," Ben said. "None of the hands are here tonight, Esau—you'll eat with us. It'll give us a chance to discuss your responsibilities around here once Hoss and the others are gone. There'll be too much to do then and it'll be too late to explain."

"If it's all the same to you…" Esau was going to beg off but then decided not to; this was a chance to sit with his family—if they were his family—and find out things he would have no other way to know such as their weaknesses, especially those of Ben Cartwright. "All right. Don't mind if I do join you. Thank you."

"Good," Ben said and clapped a hand on Esau's shoulder. "C'mon inside and we'll have a brandy until Joe's finished. Like brandy?"

"I don't know—never had it."

The three men walked to the house. And Esau again admired the pure lines of the structure, its elegance and grace. And it seemed to welcome him as a beautiful woman does her long-lost lover.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

"This is very good," Esau said as he sliced another piece of the roasted duck on his plate. The skin was crisp and the inside succulent. He had also taken a spoonful of the grapes surrounding it. The other three men at the table exchanged looks and Esau realized he had made a mistake but then the Obermeyers, the family with whom he fostered, weren't sophisticated people and he had never heard of garnish, food that was for mere decoration, not meant to be eaten. He had known periods of want, when the rains refused to come and the squash refused to produce and the corn had only a few dried kernels on the cobs. Food was precious.

"So," Ben Cartwright said awkwardly, "You spent time living with the Indians." Esau sat at the foot of the table with Ben at the head, Joe and Hoss on each side. "Hoss mentioned it," Ben added.

"Yes. A few years." Esau went back to eating; it had also been a few years since he had eaten such well-cooked food and the least time he had eaten duck, he had to catch it, pluck it and clean it himself and then roasted it without salt which he later realized made many foods taste far better than he had known. And then there was the sharp sweetness of pepper that also enhanced the taste of meat. But he remembered Pastor Obermeyer saying once that hunger is the perfect seasoning.

Hoss and Joe looked to one another as so far, dinner had been odd—uncomfortable. Esau wasn't a conversationalist and Ben, in his efforts to be a good host, had made many attempts to engage him but the young man had refused to elaborate on any subject.

The dark-haired young man disturbed Ben Cartwright; there was something about his eyes, something familiar about them but exactly what eluded him. It was as if the connection was just beyond his ken. Ben noticed that when Esau entered the house, he had stood awkwardly, placing his hands on his hips as if needing something to do as he glanced about and Ben wondered where Esau had lived since he seemed not to get enough of the surroundings. Then while Hoss sat, one leg propped on the other knee, and Ben pulled out the brandy bottle and three glasses, Esau walked over to Ben's desk. He seemed drawn to the three elegantly framed daguerreotypes of three vastly different women, Ben's three wives.

Hoss had glanced at his father, brows furrowed. The daguerreotypes were framed in gold and Hoss questioned how honest Esau was; he had no reason to distrust the new hire but one never knew what demons drove a man. And the picture Esau picked up to examine was Hoss' mother.

Esau vaguely recognized the gentle smile and blonde hair—it must be Inger. His heart thundered and he felt himself break out in a sweat. But he couldn't put down the picture. Emotion overwhelmed him and his throat closed, blocking any utterance. He sensed someone at his elbow and turned.

"That's my momma," Hoss said quietly. He resisted the urge to take the picture from Esau's hands but Esau placed it back on the desk.

"She's a beautiful woman. What happened to her? Is she here?"

"No. She was killed by Indians—I never knew her." Hoss picked up the frame and looked at the image of the blonde woman who had given him birth. "My pa said she was a wonderful woman but he won't talk much about that time."

"She looks kind; it's a shame you never knew her." Hoss was puzzled by the comment, the inflection made it seem as if Esau had known her.

Another frame held the picture of a beautiful woman with honey-blonde hair, her gaze slightly flirtatious. Esau wondered who she was. But the dark-haired woman in the third daguerreotype—her, he recognized—not the woman herself, but the chair in which she sat. It had a stitched pattern on it. Esau knew he had looked at it many times as a small boy and that his father had said it was his mother, Elizabeth. He picked it up and examined again. As a child, he had spoken the name to himself often. He remembered how the name had felt when he would say it, the movements of his tongue on his teeth. He barely whispered the word to himself as he stood looking at his mother's picture.

But the most memory-jarring thing was the chair in which "Elizabeth" sat. He had asked about the chair, its elaborate decoration, and his father had said it was "crewel," a type of needlework. The boy had been confused, thinking that the chair had been mean or evil in some way—but his father had laughed and said that the stitching, the decoration, was crewelwork, C-R-E-W-E-L, not C-R-U-E-L. Adam had listened, carefully and in that moment he had developed an even greater urge to read so his father had begun to teach him and after that, once Inger came to them, she would sit with Adam while the covered wagon, rocked and traversed the many miles and have him to read from the huge family Bible and he was pleased to read his own name in the leather-bound book and to know that his name was also the name of the first man. In the Osage camp, in the rare times he wasn't busy, Tóa would write in the dirt using his forefinger—short sentences with the words he already knew and others he didn't, their spelling contrived from sounds he could construct. Habazi, when she once caught him, had wiped out the letters with her foot; she thought it was bad magic. But Tóa wasn't deterred. He would still write his name, A-D-A-M, in the dirt followed by other words, being certain to smear them out with his palm before Habazi saw and decided to slap him to make her point.

"That's my Pa's first wife. Her name was Elizabeth Stoddard." Hoss explained, picking up the third framed picture. "And this beautiful lady here, that's Joe's momma and the only momma I ever knew. Her name was Marie deVaille, or however it's pronounced. A French name—she was from New Orleans. She's not with us anymore either. None of them are." He replaced the frame on the table and Esau replaced his mother's, watching while Hoss arranged them as he thought fitting, as he felt they should be. And when Esau turned around, the man he was now sure was his father, the man who had left him behind in the wilderness, was still standing in the same spot, a bottle of brandy in one hand and the three glasses held between his outstretched fingers.

"You okay, Pa?" Hoss asked.

"What? Yes, yes." Ben recovered himself and smiled wanly. "I just had a goose walk over my grave. Please sit," he told the new hire. "We'll eat once Joe finishes and washes up."

But Esau now felt greater assurance—his father had repeated a saying Inger always employed when she felt odd about something. _"_ _What does that mean, Inger? You're not going to die, are you?" "Oh, child, it's a silly expression—pay no mind to me. It just means that…well, I'm a foolish woman sometimes and I get chills when anyone on the train talks of trouble. In the old country, when one would feel that way, it was thought that a goose just walked over the spot where you were to be buried one day. As I said, Adam, I'm silly sometimes and foolish, childish things come out of my mouth."_

And because Esau spoke so little that a conversation was nigh impossible, Ben and Hoss talked to him about the ranch, about what his duties would be once Hoss and the drovers had left. And then once Joe came in, dinner was served and Esau ate but he watched with awe as Hoss put away a whole duck all by himself; he hadn't exaggerated his appetite.

Joe noticed Esau watching Hoss eat. "Hoss can eat anyone under the table or just about drink anyone there."

"You're just envious of my abilities," Hoss said as he broke a roll in half to wipe up the juices from his plate. "I can eat three times as much as you 'cause I'm three times the man. Ask any of them ladies at Miss Ora's…"

"Hoss!" Ben cautioned sharply. "That type of talk at the dinner table…and when we have a guest…"

Joe giggled and Hoss offered an apology to both his father and Esau. But he added in an aside to Esau, "Iffen you think you might want to spend some time with a…" He glanced at his father who stared sternly, his fork in mid-air. "With a 'young lady' in town, just ask me where you should go. Joe can only tell you who sells the best licorice whips."

Ben just sighed with resignation and Esau couldn't help but smile. He was surprised at how much he liked…the word seemed alien to him but he knew what they were—his brothers.

Despite his desire to know Joe and Hoss, to see if he had anything in common with them except the same paternal blood, Esau stood up after diner and thanked them for their hospitality.

"Hey," Joe said, standing up along with his father and Hoss, "You can't go before dessert. Why Hop Sing'll think something was wrong with his dinner—he'll never forgive you." Joe smiled but he was only half-joking.

"I'm not one for sweets. But thank Hop Sing for me. Hoss, you eat mine."

Hoss grinned. "I knew there was a reason I liked you! Let me walk you out."

"It's not needed," Esau said. "I don't think I'll get lost between here and the barn."

Hoss chuckled. "Nah, but I'll get some blankets for you." But before Hoss pulled three blankets out of the credenza in the m entrance, he lifted the lid on the sugar jar on the table and pulled out a few loaves of sugar. "For my horse," he said by way of explanation and popped one in his mouth as well.

As the two men walked across the yard, Hoss insisting on carrying the blankets, Hoss explained about the trip to the barn and the sugar loaves.

"I know it sounds silly but I like to say goodnight to my horse; give him a little treat. Him and me, we been through a lot together and since I'm leaving on the cattle drive tomorrow, well, I won't be seein' him awhile." They entered the barn and a large, sturdy, horse nickered gently.

"That's him, I take it. Esau had seen Hoss take the horse in earlier but he was busy disposing of the soiled wood chips in the wheelbarrow

"Yup." Hoss handed the blankets to Esau and went over to the horse that snuffled about Hoss' neck, pushing him gently. "Now, don't be so greedy." He stroked the horse's face while holding the rope bridle.

"Oh, Esau," Hoss called out as Esau walked to the back. "Do me a favor, would ya?" Esau stood, waiting. "Exercise him a bit ever' day, would you. He's like me—likes to be outside no matter what kinda weather."

"What's his name?"

"Chubby but I call him Chubb. I guess him and me, well, we fit together—ain't neither one of us a lightweight.

Esau smiled and before he set about making-up his cot, he watched Hoss with the horse.

"Now hold on a minute. There." Hoss held out his open palm and the horse gently took the sugar from his hand. Then the animal nudged him again. "That's all I got, boy—you know that too much sweetnin' ain't good for neither of us but afore I leave on the cattle drive, I'll bring you an apple from our own bowl—a nice crispy, juicy one, not one of them bruised ones you usually get. And iffen I can sneak into Hop Sing's garden, I'll pull you up a few carrots. See? I'm willing to risk life and limb for you 'cause if Hop Sing catches me, why he's liable to chop my head off with that big ol' cleaver of his."

Hoss rubbed the horse's neck and as he walked out of the barn, he called out, "Night, Esau. You need anythin', just come to the house."

"One thing," Esau asked. "About the company of a 'lady"…"

"Oh," Hoss said grinning, "that. Well, there's a house in town—Miss Ora's down at the end of 3rd street—painted blue with yellow trim. You won't get rolled afore you even get your trousers off and you won't come away with a disease that'll make you want to hack the thing off yourself 'cause it hurts so much. It's a clean place but none too fancy."

"Thanks," Esau said and Hoss nodded and left.

And then Esau was left alone. He said his name out loud to himself—"Adam Cartwright. Adam Stoddard Cartwright." But there was no emotion engendered, no recognition in his soul, nothing but a sense of profound loss. Esau didn't know if he would ever be, could ever be, Adam Cartwright again. But then, maybe he would claim it—claim back his birthright.

He wondered how Hoss would react to the knowledge that Esau was his older brother, that there were three of them instead of only two, that the inheritance would be divided three ways? Would Hoss want to destroy him or welcome him? Would his father deny him, lie and claim that he had seen his son's body ripped apart by wolves or embrace him? Would Joe be upset or glad to have someone share the burden of responsibility even if it was another older brother that would knock him further to the bottom? But Esau knew those questions might never be answered because he might not stay. He just might exact some type of revenge and then leave and never look back. What the future held was yet to be seen, yet to be created.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

His mind swirling with all that had happened in one day, being hired and realizing that he had found his father and two brothers, Esau had trouble sleeping, would doze and then awaken at the slightest sound. He would hear the horses snort or nicker on occasion and just turn over and go back to sleep. But once he sat up, alarmed, when he felt pressure on his cot. He sighed in relief; it was just the orange tabby investigating. The cat walked about the blankets and then, tucking its legs underneath it, it lay on the end of the cot.

"Who told you that you were welcome? Get off my bed and hunt down some fat mice or go find some female to enjoy." But the cat made no response, didn't even open its eyes and Esau didn't have the heart to kick it off. He lay back down; he knew how difficult it was to find moments of peace in the world and he couldn't deny another creature who also had to live by its wits to survive a chance to find sanctuary and rest.

Esau's mind went back to the Obermeyers—and then before.

"What you mean this white boy ain't worth nothin'? Nobody's put out a reward for a kid lost in Osage territory?" Zachariah, the head trapper, stalked about the Hays City marshal's office.

The marshal tried not to show that he was repelled by the offensive smell that had entered along with the trapper and his "prisoner," a young man led in on a rope tied about his wrists. "I've got nothin' on a lost child, boy, girl, anyone—look yourself. You ask him if he's got family?" The marshal turned to the young man sitting calmly before him. His face looked as if he was still recovering from being battered; it was bruised and his lip and one eye was still swollen. Whether the boy—although he was close to being a man—had family to claim him, the marshal decided he needed to keep him there. Even at 16 or 17 years which was what he appeared, he was too young to ride with these men. "Esau, what's your last name? Who's your pa?"

"Hell…" Zachariah said and then spat tobacco into a spittoon by the sheriff's desk, some of it splattering on the side along with other stains from poor aim. "Esau ain't his Christian name—I gave it to him 'cause he's growin' fur already. All he'll ever say is that his name is some…Wasape…somethin' Injun, so I just call him Esau, you know, like you'd name a stray dog that started followin' you around only if this 'dog' had his way, he'd take off runnin'. He'd probably only come back to slit your throat and then piss down it."

"Well," the marshal said as he shuffled through papers on his desk, "I'm guessing he's been with the Indians a long time. Probably more Indian that white by now—happens you know."

"Yeah, I guess. Well, somebody somewhere'll pay money for him. Might be able to trade 'im to the Comanches for a nice, round squaw. They'd pay for a night's entertainment torturing a white kid." Zachariah grabbed Esau up by the collar and the boy twisted away and then butted Zachariah in the stomach and with an "Oof," the man fell backwards. He quickly found his feet, furious with being embarrassed. "You little sonovabitch, I'll teach you…" He grabbed the length of rope hanging from Esau's wrists and jerked on it, almost bringing the young man to his knees. He then pulled back his fist to smash Esau's face but pulled short when he heard a gun click behind him.

"Now, you just leave that kid here. I'm taking custody of him and if you have an argument, think you have a case, the circuit judge comes by in about a month. You can file papers now if you want to and have a hearing. But the kid stays here. I might find out yet that someone is lookin' for him."

Zachariah glowered. He knew the young man was afraid of being turned over to the Comanches; anyone who'd spent time with the Indians, anyone who'd ever heard about the Apache or the Comanches and their hate toward white men, well, they would rather shoot themselves in the head than be turned over. The remains of their victims spoke about how much the captives must have suffered before they died. Even Zachariah was afraid of the two tribes—actually all tribes—but he had managed a grudging respect—that is if he had something they wanted, usually horses or women from other tribes. But Zachariah knew that he could be killed on a whim if he showed any disrespect. But this white boy, what a prize he would have been.

"I think I'll just take that afore I go…" Zachariah reached for the bear claw necklace.

"No, I don't think so," the marshal said. "Just leave it."

"I shoulda killed 'im when I had the chance," Zachariah said and then he spat on the floor , wiped the spittle off his beard with the back of his hand and walked out.

The marshal holstered his gun. "Sit down, son," the marshal said. "Can I get you something to eat?" He walked closer to the youth who seemed as tightly wound as a coiled snake. "How 'bout I send for some food? You like a nice turkey sandwich?" The marshal smiled benevolently-and then Esau spat in his face.

Whipping out his handkerchief, the marshal wiped his face. "You little sonovabitch. C'mon." he shoved Esau through the back doors and locked him in a cell." Put your hands through the bars, that is if you want them ropes removed. I should leave you tied up and gag you as well."

Esau considered what the marshal said and then he shoved his hands through the bars. The marshal noticed that the skin under the ropes was raw and had been bleeding but the young man was stoic. The marshal pulled out a pocketknife and cut the ropes but before he did, he said, "You spit at me again, son, and I just might beat the hell outta you myself."

Esau sat in the cell for three days eating beans, ham and biscuits three times a day and having only a bucket in which to relieve himself. Every morning, an old man came and emptied the bucket, then mopped the floor while the marshal watched Esau, his gun at the ready. The old man never spoke as he went about his work except the first day.

"You sure he knows that he's not supposed to wash in the bucket as well as shit in it? He stinks."

"Here," the marshal said and gave the man a few coins before he left, but what the old man had said gave him pause. He decided to try once more. "Son, I can't give you a razor but I can give you water and soap. You want any? Might help the atmosphere around here but I know I always feel better after I've cleaned up a bit."

Esau slowly nodded. He had been thinking about what was to come and realized that he was going to need to live among the whites; his people were killed and he wouldn't be accepted into another Wazhazhe tribe, just slaughtered as a white man no matter what language he spoke or how he was dressed.

"Okay. I have to take a stroll around town but when I get back, I'll have what you need."

Esau had finally washed and the cool water felt good on his hot flesh. He had also changed from the loin cloth to a pair of dungarees. The marshal had also returned with a pair of waist-high long johns and a blue cotton shirt along with a pair of boots; he had guessed and guessed correctly. The marshal had to tell Esau the order of clothing—long johns first, then the dungarees. To Esau, it seemed too much clothing. But then that was the white man's way—superfluity.

"You don't look too unusual now. If we cut your hair, well, you just might blend in. People might think you're one of the Stavroses—they're Greek—have black hair and skin like yours. If some of these men hereabouts think you're any part Indian, you don't have a chance. Much as I might try to protect you, you' dbe shot down in the street. Many a man's lost a family member or friend to Indians and although you might be young, well, they'd justify it by killing you afore you could grow up to be trouble."

So Esau allowed a barber to come in and cut his hair while again, the marshal watched, his hand on his gun. He worried the boy would grab the scissors and turn them on the barber and then him. But the young man sat quietly as the long locks of raven-black hair fell to the floor about his new boots. Esau had put on the clothes but when the marshal reached for his old clothing, Esau stood up and said, "No. Those are mine." And the marshal, surprised to hear the first words the boy had spoken, stepped back. Then he shrugged and left the over-sized buckskin shirt, the loin cloth and the soft boots on the end of the cot where Esau had placed them. The young man didn't have much and the marshal saw no reason to take away the few things he did have.

The next morning as he ate his ham, beans and biscuit, Esau heard the door open and the marshal walked in with a man and a woman.

"This is him" The marshal paused while the man and woman looked at the boy in the cell. "Esau, this is Pastor and Mrs. Obermeyer. They're going to take you in, give you a place to live."

Esau still said nothing, just stopped eating to look at them. The couple was older, not as old as Habazi, Esau guessed, but older than the marshal. And the woman had a kind smile, gentle eyes.

"He looks more like a man than a boy," the pastor said. "You've misled us and I'm not sure we should…"

"Well, I am," Mrs. Obermeyer said as she stepped forward. "Esau, I'm pleased to meet you." She turned to the marshal. "Marshal Braeden, will you unlock the cell? There's no reason to keep him locked up, is there?"

"Well, no in that he hasn't committed a crime but…." The marshal was going to say that he hadn't wanted his throat cut in the middle of the night, hence keeping Esau locked up, but didn't. "I just had no place else to put him. Like I said, he has no family. Esau, you ready to go?"

"Now, not so fast," Pastor Obermeyer said. "We need to reconsider…"

"No," Mrs. Obermeyer said, a small note of desperation in her voice. "Please. We discussed this."

"We were told he was a boy, a boy, who had lived with Indians but him…he's…one of them." The young man disturbed him. All his life, the pastor had struggled with urges he tried to deny. He had joined seminary in order that his desire for the love of God would supersede his earthly longings. And he had also married and had been a good and faithful husband. But this young man who sat in the jail cell with his tempting mouth and long, elegant fingers…he didn't want him in the house. A boy would leave him cold, but this was a man and he was beautiful.

And Esau looked dangerous. Hadn't he lived with the heathens? Surely he learned their evil, pagan ways, their brutish mating rituals, their worship of many gods and spirits.

"Father," Mrs. Obermeyer pleaded, "this is your chance to perform your missionary work, to convert another soul to God. The boy needs us."

"He's not a boy! Look at him, Mother! He's a grown man!"

Tears started in her eyes as Mrs. Obermeyer looked down at her gloved hands. Marshal Braedon waited; he had been afraid that once the Obermeyers saw Esau, they would refuse to take him in. And he considered, Esau wasn't a boy and the Marshal had misled them—intentionally. But they had never asked Esau's name and the marshal hadn't volunteered the information.

"All right, all right," the pastor said, patting his wife's arm, "if it means that much to you, he can come with us but the moment he does anything, breaks any of the roles we lay down, he goes. As long as you and he know that." The pastor looked at Esau who just kept his level gaze.

"Thank you," Mrs. Obermeyer said. She smiled with gratitude at her husband and wiped away her tears. "Well, Esau, it looks as if you'll be coming with us after all."

Esau put down the tin plate that held the remains of his breakfast and stood, gathering up his clothing from the end of the cot and the marshal unlocked the cell door. Then he turned to the Obermeyers. "Would you two mind steppin' outside a moment? I just want to have a word or two with 'im before you take "im."

"Of course not," Mrs. Obermeyer said. "Come, Father, let's wait outside.

The marshal noticed the puzzled look on Esau's face each time the Obermeyers called each other "father" and "mother."

"Listen to me, son," the marshal said. "Pastor Obermeyer and his wife are opening their home to you. This here town has a lot of people whose parents or grandparents came from Germany—mine included. You may not know where that is but it's a country far away across the ocean and they've brought a lot of customs with them and one of them is orderliness and neatness and respecting one's elders. Now if they want you to take a bath, sweep up, wash dishes—anything-do it without complaining. And you'll be expected to do chores about the place like any natural child of theirs would."

 _I am going from finally becoming a person to becoming a slave again_ , Esau thought to himself. _But this time I won't wait as long._

"After all, they're givin' you a roof over your head and fillin' your belly and Mrs. Obermeyer, she's one of the best cook around but she'll deny it like women do, but they sure like to hear it. But you know how women are—they're modest like the Bible says they should be but just keep complimenting her anyway. And Pastor Obermeyer's our Lutheran pastor, a well-respected man but he's a stern man and believes in a stern God. You do what you're told and…well, you'll get along fine and have a lot of apple strudel to eat—like I said, Mrs. Obermeyer's a great cook and baker. Wait until you taste her sauerbraten.

"So my advice to you is be polite and you'll learn how to live with white men without wantin' to kill and scalp all of us. Not everyone is like those trappers were. We are your people, after all." Esau said nothing. "And by the way, the Obermeyers just call each other mother and father even though they have no children of their own. And take off that bear claw necklace. The Pastor, well, he don't like any heathen trappings—which includes rosaries, in his opinion."

Esau had no idea of what the marshal was speaking but he pulled off the bear claw necklace with one hand and put it in a pants-pocket. He waited.

"Let's go," the marshal said, and walked Esau to the Obermeyers who were waiting outside. And Mrs. Obermeyer gave Esau a smile that warmed his heart and for the first time, believing it would never happen again, believing that even a small beam of joy would never again enter his world, Esau smiled back.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

"I could have told you just by his name that he was bad," Pastor Obermeyer said to his wife who was preparing to do her baking for the next few days. She knew she had to double her usual number of cakes and pies and strudel as Esau enjoyed them so much, she always served him large portions and her husband complained if there was none left for him to enjoy. "Any parent who would name their child Esau… _Jacob I have loved, but Esau have I hated_. Either the people weren't Christian or they detested him—they didn't even bestow him with a last name. I can't say I'm fond of him myself and he's been here almost two months now. Creeping around the way he does—just like an Indian would and he still has all his Indian clothes hidden under his bed. I'm tempted to burn them. And destroy that bear claw talisman of his. Idolatry. It's just another sign that he's in league with the devil."

"Now, Father, he's not in league with the dark one—that's just silly. And as far as his parents, well, who knows what happened to them—they may have been killed in an Indian attack. And Marshal Braeden stopped by just last week—he said it was just to check on things but I think he smelled my cinnamon bread from the street-and I asked him about Esau and if he heard any news from anyone since he's looking for any family members, and he told me that the boy…"

"Mother, he's not a boy!" The pastor sighed. "Forgive me. Forgive my temper but since that…since Esau's come here, I find I'm always on edge. I know I need to pray for God to change my thinking about him, but as I've said before, we were misled—intentionally. You know yourself that Marshal Braeden said he was a homeless 'boy' who needed a family but he's basically a grown man and although I have to admit he's industrious, completes tasks about here without being asked, I still…I'm leery of him; I don't like him near me. Why this afternoon he snapped that chicken's neck without any qualms. Plucked it, gutted it and didn't blink twice. He's cold like a savage. Those eyes of his…they're impenetrable. I never know what he's thinking."

"Marshal Braedon said that he was named Esau by the men who found him—he had an Indian name…" She realized she had made an error.

"An Indian name? You mean he doesn't even remember his Christian white name? This is worse than I thought. We have a viper in our midst."

"Father, please! Don't judge him harshly—Esau may not be a boy but he's still young and needs guidance. Why he may be quiet with you because you're too harsh, but he talks to me—granted not much, but he reads beautifully. I have him read from the Bible while I work or sew and I started teaching him arithmetic." Mrs. Obermeyer didn't mention that she also requested he read from the volume of Shakespeare's play and sonnets. That and the Bible were the only books in the home and together, she and Esau read _Othello_ , _Romeo and Juliet_ , _The Merchant of Venice, King Lear_ and _Macbeth_. But it was _Hamlet_ that intrigued Esau the most with the plot of Prince Hamlet's bloody revenge on his uncle-father. "He's so sharp of mind that I had to borrow a higher textbook from the schoolmaster because Esau so quickly grasped the basics. In one day he understood division and multiplication; it just shows that the Indians know how to count and subtract and the rudiments—they aren't quite the uncivilized people we think they are. And he understands things and…you should talk to him sometimes and explain things as he asks questions about the Bible and God that I can't answer."

"Such as what?" The pastor didn't like the idea that Esau would question anything that was written in the Holy Book. "Remember, the purpose of the devil is to destroy our faith by attacking the word of God."

"Oh, Father, he's not a heretic—he just wants to understand. And he's such a handsome, young man. And then the way he sings the hymns in church—he has a glorious voice—like a blessed angel. I just look at him as he sings with the light streaming in on his beautiful face…he's transported by the spirit of God!"

"Mother! You should be ashamed. A beautiful voice doesn't make a beautiful soul. Nor does the fact that he's a handsome man. Remember that Satan was an angel as well but he was evil. And as Hamlet said, 'The devil hath powers to assume a pleasing shape.' How else can we be seduced into doing evil unless it's appealing?" Pastor Obermeyer was sweating profusely; he was certain that Satan himself had sent Esau to test him, to test his faith, to test his determination to remain true to his beliefs. The pastor saw himself as Job, the devil tormenting him with unspeakable urges to see if he would remain faithful or curse the name of God and give in one night to the darkness in his soul. But he would resist his desire to taste the tender, red mouth—he would not be won over to the dark side.

Mrs. Obermeyer sighed. "Yes, well…" She felt peevish toward her husband and wanted him to leave her kitchen. "I have to get my dough made. Esau's peeling apples and I don't want them turning brown."

"Strudel again." He stated it. "You spoil him. Remember, Mother, he's not our son."

"Esau likes strudel. And you do too, Father. Now get down my crock of flour so I can begin."

Esau stepped away from the kitchen door where he had been listening holding the huge bowl of peeled apples. He had already tossed the peelings to the pigs as he had been doing with all the cooking garbage since he arrived and was ready to take the apples inside when he heard the Obermeyers talking about him. His heart had thudded as he listened. He knew the pastor didn't care for him, didn't trust him. But now he knew that the man had found his old clothing and threatened to burn them; he would have to hide them someplace else to keep them safe.

And Esau now knew for certain that Mrs. Obermeyer loved him. He had thought he recognized her actions toward him as affection the way he knew that Inger and then Habazi cared, but hadn't been sure. Love was an emotion he had read about in the Bible and in Shakespeare, but it was a word the Wazhazhe didn't have. It never had to be said there. But Mrs. Obermeyer had stood up to her stern husband and defended him, fought for him—and she reminded him of Inger. Inger had also always come to his defense, always tried to mitigate any punishment he might receive from his father.

A few times Esau had gone with Mrs. Obermeyer to the graveyard next to the church to visit a series of four small graves, all with the last names of Obermeyer—one girl and three boys. And Mrs. Obermeyer would kneel on the grass and pray while Esau, not knowing what else to do, dropped to his knees beside her. And then he would help her up afterwards and she would smile wanly and neither said a word; he knew they were her dead children.

Esau walked into the kitchen as Mrs. Obermeyer was now alone and beginning to mix her flour with lard. She smiled broadly and Esau smiled back. He placed the big earthenware bowl of peeled apples on the kitchen counter.

"If you have nothing else for me, I'll go milk the cows." Esau looked toward the parlor; the stench of sulfur, of a struck match suddenly filled the air and he wondered about his clothes, if they were being set aflame in the fireplace.

"He's writing Sunday's sermon," Mrs. Obermeyer said quietly, conspiratorially. She watched Esau before she went back to her dough. "He'll be at it awhile so please be quiet about the house." And then Esau heard her mumble, "And hopefully, while he's at it, he'll pray for understanding and charity of soul."

Esau went out to the cowshed and considered leaving—just changing clothes that night, stealing a horse and riding away. He had lost his appaloosa-the trappers had taken it along with their other stolen Osage ponies. But Esau had learned from his short time spent in the jail that horse thieves were hanged—no questions asked-and the marshal would more than likely come after him and if he caught him, drag him back to town and hang him in the middle of the town square. And Esau would have taken the chance of being caught except for Rosamunde. She kept him there.

The first time Esau went to church, he went to please Mrs. Obermeyer; the pastor had demanded he go and Mrs. Obermeyer, sensing that Esau was about to refuse, looked at him, silently begging him to go. So he did. After that, he went because the girl with the blonde hair and the sky-blue eyes drew him. Eventually he learned her name was Rosamunde, which she told him one afternoon, meant "Garden of Flowers" in German. Esau had thought the name most appropriate because she smelled unlike anything he had ever known. Rosamunde had giggled and told him that it was rosewater, not her but he didn't believe it; it had to be her skin and her hair—and her mouth.

Mrs. Obermeyer always sat in the front pew and Esau sat with her but it didn't allow him to easily see Rosamunde; she and her family—her parents and a younger brother—sat halfway back. But one Saturday after the weather had turned crisp and leaves began to change color, Mrs. Obermeyer had packed a basket filled with dishes and asked Esau to carry it to the common room; there was to be a luncheon as well as a baking competition and cake auction, and then a dance. Esau's heart rose; perhaps he could find time to speak to Rosamunde but he also knew that many of the other young men were attracted to her and would try to dance with her and walk her home afterwards. But he would try anyway for none of the other girls made him sweat like she did, made him want something from her that had no name.

Tables inside the common room were covered with all types of baskets and women were setting out the food, all desserts on one table, bread and rolls on another and with one long table just for the cake auction. Esau was amazed at the plethora of food. He knew there was always more than enough at the Obermeyers but he had assumed it was because the pastor was important but it seemed everyone had a bounty of food. The odor of the fruit pies with their cinnamon, anise, ginger and cardamom perfumed the air. And as he unpacked the basket and handed the dishes to Mrs. Obermeyer, he well understood why he had spent a good part of Friday grinding up walnuts as she had made a pastry roll filled with the nuts mixed with honey and cinnamon.

As he had worked beside Mrs. Obermeyer, Esau noticed the women glanced at him and if he looked up, most of them pretended to be interested elsewhere but he knew they were looking at him. _Perhaps_ , he considered, _they see this as no work for a man._ But in his mind, the three women who had dominated his life were rolled into one; he had helped Inger and Habazi and now Mrs. Obermeyer. Perhaps he was stooping, lowering himself in status but they treated him with a kindness his young heart needed and the fact that no other male—man or boy—was in the room but him, made no difference to him. And then Rosamunde Gerhardt and her mother walked in carrying baskets, Rosamunde's yellow curls covered by a straw bonnet tied under her chin with a thick, orange ribbon.

Esau was ashamed of his gut reaction to her—he desired her the way the trapper had the squaw, taking her underneath him. His mind went back to Mosane and her gentle beauty, her large, dark eyes and gentle ways and he felt guilt over desiring this white girl. What kind of person was he to have forgotten how much he cared for Mosane? But he also knew that if a brave's woman died, he took another. Esau wanted to use that fact to justify his longing for Rosamunde but couldn't help but face himself—he was no better than any other white man who was ruled by his male parts.

Esau remembered the trappers who had slaughtered the Wazhazhe and all the other stories he had heard over the years about white men, about how they had no honor, no god but what was between their legs and sacrificed women to it. And he wanted to tamp down the heat in his own blood but he couldn't. _I say then, walk in the Spirit, and ye shall not fulfil the lust of the flesh._ Those were the words from the Bible, the book that Mrs. Obermeyer said guided men's lives, men who believed in God and his love and mercy. And every night, Esau and Mrs. Obermeyer sat quietly while the Pastor read verses from the Bible to them. Many of the chosen passages, Esau knew, were aimed at him—passages about pagans and idolatry and damnation—but didn't the Pastor lay with his wife, he considered? Was it not lust that drove him to mount her?

Of course, Esau considered, they were husband and wife but he well-remembered the precept from God—go forth and procreate. Mrs. Obermeyer was now too old, her womb too infertile to bear any more children and yet, in the quiet of night, Esau often heard the subtle noises of copulation from the bedroom next to his. That the pastor had weaknesses of the flesh didn't help Esau reconcile the two desires that raged through his blood and kept him from sleeping—revenge and lust. His revenge compelled him to kill all those who had harmed him and destroyed his world. He knew he would probably never find the trappers but there was still the man who had left him behind. And lust for a woman, for Rosamunde, drove him during the day.

Mrs. Obermeyer was chatting with another woman and Esau, his heart in his throat, walked over to Rosamunde Gerhardt. She glanced up and him as he approached, their eyes locking, and then she blushed and looked back to the basket. Of course, he thought, she knows who I am, knows about my having lived with the Osage.

"Miss Gerhardt," he practically whispered. Rosamunde glanced around; her mother was helping set up the casserole dishes and laughing and chatting.

"You're that Indian boy—Esau."

"No. I'm not Indian, I just…"

She looked about again and then, looking down and turning the cake to keep her hands busy, said, "Meet me outside—behind the rectory—in the cowshed. I'll be there in a minute."

Esau's heart thumped madly—like a hammer on an anvil. It was almost painful. He waited. The rectory, the pastor's home was behind the church on a lot that stretched out for two acres. The graveyard was beside the church. When he calculated that enough time had passed, he left the common room and headed for the cowshed behind the rectory, and there, in the barn was Rosamunde.

"I'm sorry I have to be sneaky but my mother, she would tell my father if I was seen talking to you; he would bullwhip me."

"I…" Esau didn't know what to say. She was lovelier than he had ever imagined. Her skin was white as milk and her cheeks as pink as the geraniums on the Obermeyers front porch.

"I've noticed you, Esau." She giggled and Esau felt heat of shame rise to his cheeks. She was laughing at him, at his awkwardness. "Oh, don't look like that—it's just that…Esau…the name. You know…what it means." Esau's face remained like stone; he wasn't going to show his feelings but then she reached out and took his hand. "Please, don't be offended, Esau. I think you're…beautiful!"

Esau was surprised that she thought he was beautiful. "No," he barely managed to say, "it's you. You are the loveliest thing I've ever seen—like the sun rising in the morning. Every day I wake and my thoughts are drawn to you. I think of you at night aa well and long to have you with me. This person would be proud to have you at my side."

Rosamunde looked confused. Esau spoke strangely and so honestly, but then he was like no other young man she had known. The other ones who wooed her brought her candy and grabbed at her when they sat on the porch, wanting a kiss from her as a promise they were the only one she would allow to court her. Rosamunde always told them no, that she wasn't sure, but the truth was she didn't want to kiss them. But Esau, he stirred a desire in her, a need to be held by him and be smothered with a kiss from his delicate mouth.

"Oh, Esau…kiss me."

And so it started.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

**Twelve**

The fever never left Esau's blood. Every chance they had, Rosamunde and Esau would find each other, sneak out of their homes and meet in a field or in her father's barn. Esau who was now old enough in the white man's world to have a wife wanted to marry Rosamunde.

"I burn for you," he said one night as they clutched each other lying in the hay. It had been months and the winter was gone and spring was on its way. And Rosamunde seemed to bloom. She allowed Esau to kiss her neck and then her smooth breasts but she was afraid to go further despite his eagerness, his coaxing hands and his constant requests to marry. "Marry me, Rosamunde."

She began to protest, to explain to him again why she couldn't but he quickly hushed her with a kiss.

"I know, I know, Rosamunde—your father doesn't approve of me but once we're married-oh, Rosamunde, once you're my wife, once he sees our happiness, he'll approve. I'm going to find a job—the pastor wants me out of the house; he's said so—has given me a month. But I'm good with shoeing horses—taking care of them. I'm going to ask the farrier if he needs an assistant and then I'll find a house for us. Rosamunde, I can't do without you." He pulled her to him again and filled his head with her scent as his lips slid over her slender neck. His body raged with desire and he kissed her with a madness he couldn't control. It seemed that nothing was in his control and he was overwhelmed with longing.

Rosamunde, as gently as she could, pushed Esau away and sat up, adjusting her clothing, buttoning up her neckline. "Esau," she finally said and he lay his head in her lap, his arms about her waist. She ran her fingers through the dark, wavy hair. "I do love you—you know that—but can't you wait for three more months? I'll be eighteen then and my father won't have any say over who I marry. He'll be surprised when it's not John Werner, but...it'll be too late. Please, Esau, please! Don't be angry." He had sat up and she saw he was devastated.

Rosamunde knew she had to be careful; Esau seemed to need reassurance that he was loved. She knew his mother had died when he was born and that his father had abandoned him on the route west but no other details of his life. He never wanted to talk about himself and especially not about his time with the Indians. But once, as they clung to each other in the barn, their lips bruised from kissing, Esau lay with his head on her bosom and he told her of the slaughter of the Osage. She was stunned at what he related and was in awe of the man, for that's what he was—a man, not a boy-who loved her. To her, it seemed as if was unsure of his place in the world and could explode in anger at any moment although he struggled to control his changing emotions. She didn't know if she was even worthy of his devotion. And once she asked Esau if he had ever loved anyone else, any other girl. He had just seemed to gaze not outward, but inward, and then just quietly said, "No." It was the only time she suspected Esau of lying to her.

"I'm not angry…not with you…never with you." Esau sat up and touched Rosamunde's golden hair. She was all he wanted anymore.

Mrs. Obermeyer seemed to realize that Rosamunde Gerhardt was the reason Esau was often gone at night. She knew he had been leaving at night, sneaking out through his bedroom window, but kept it to herself. He was a grown man anymore, large and muscular like a young mountain lion, and restlessness was inherent in young males. She had also noticed the way he and Rosamunde Gerhardt would look at each other in church-and then look away as if they had a secret between them.

And due to Esau's imposing size and presence, Mr. Obermeyer had said at dinner a few weeks ago that he thought it was time for Esau to find his own way. Esau had just looked up, paused, and then continued to eat.

The pastor had slammed his fist on the table and the coffee cups on their saucers rattled.; Mrs. Obermeyer reacted with a startled gasp. Esau stopped eating and stared at the man.

"I have opened my home to you, fed you, given you shelter and you still don't behave any more like a Christian than you did when you first came here. Don't you have any gratitude? Any emotion? I say you need to leave and you have no reaction. You're more Indian still than a civilized person. My guess is that you're nineteen or twenty, old enough to find your own way. I'll give you a month and then you need to be out of here."

"Father, really…" Mrs. Obermeyer, her voice quavering, hated the idea that Esau would leave. It was common for family to stay together, many generations living in one house and she wanted Esau to stay. He had filled a hole in her life and she needed him, needed someone to love and although she knew he could seem cold, she also knew it was Esau's way of protecting his heart. She realized that he had gone through a great deal of pain and so he held much inside. But he would smile when she spoke to him and it would fill her heart with joy. She was proud to be seen with her 'son," he was so handsome and often joyous with her. But Pastor Obermeyer, he doused Esau's joy with remonstrations against laughing on Sunday and singing in the house.

Pastor Obermeyer wagged his finger at his wife. "And you! You coddle him and spoil him. Look at him! Why he's taller than I am, bigger than I am and you still treat him like a boy! I've done my duty by him, I've done all that I promised the marshal I would do—and more." The pastor looked at his plate and then stood, tossing his napkin on the table. "Excuse me. I'm not hungry anymore. I'll be in the parlor working. I prefer not to be disturbed." He stalked out.

Mrs. Obermeyer looked at the handsome young man she basically considered her son. "I'm sorry, Esau. I…" She twisted the napkin she held.

"It's all right," Esau said. "please don't cry. He's right. It's time I left." And in his mind, he thought of Rosamunde; he would marry her and he would find the happiness that had always eluded him.

It was late. Esau climbed the tree that stood close to his window and crawled inside his room. He had just left Rosamunde and his blood still ran hot; he was unsatisfied, full of raging desires that had found no outlet. He dropped onto the floor of his room and stood. Esau held his breath in anticipation-someone else was in the room. The sound of a match striking and the sudden acrid odor of Sulphur filled his nose. It was Pastor Obermeyer who had stood and lit the lamp that now illuminated the room.

Earlier that evening, once Esau had gone upstairs, Pastor Obermeyer argued again with his wife about Esau but she had finally convinced him to let Esau stay longer; wasn't he to help those in need? Wasn't that his position in the community, to help others? Wasn't it his calling? Had he no charity in his heart? Mrs. Obermeyer had shamed her husband into allowing Esau to stay until he was ready to go on his own and agreed that he himself would help the boy find work. The pastor felt such mortification that he went to Esau's room to apologize but when he knocked, no one responded. He opened the door and found out why; Esau was gone, the window open and the curtains fluttering in the night breeze.

"Where have you been, sneaking around in the dark?" Pastor Obermeyer stood. In the darkness, the moonlight illuminating the shadows, he considered that Esau did look like an Indian sneaking into a house to murder its inhabitants as they slept. The pastor felt himself shaking from emotion. The "boy" was too sensual, too prodigiously masculine to remain in his home despite his promises to his wife, and the pastor had the overwhelming urge to strike Esau. Or embrace him. It was odd the effect the young man had on people.

"None of your business," Esau quietly answered.

"Get out of my home," the pastor said. "Tonight. Now. Get out or I swear I'll throw you out."

Esau laughed. Chills ran down the pastor's spine; he felt he was confronting the devil himself but he was only confronting his own demons, his own longings and desires that he had suppressed for so long. His hope was that with Esau gone, his life would once again be in balance.

"You couldn't throw me out. I'd toss you out the goddamn window myself if it weren't for your wife. She's the only good thing in this house and the idea that she's married to you makes me gag." The pastor stood shocked, his mouth open; he hadn't anticipated Esau's response—had believed the young man would drop to his knees and beg for another chance, that he held power over Esau and wanted to wield it, but it wasn't going according to his expectations. "I'll go and be glad to be shed of you and your hypocrisy."

Mr. Obermeyer said nothing, he could think of nothing to say. He now he wished he hadn't told Esau to leave. But he stood and watched while Esau pulled open a drawer and started pulling out his few belongings, some shirts and handkerchiefs, clothes the Obermeyers had bought him but Esau felt he had earned with his work about the place. After all, he made repairs, replaced shingles on the room, chopped wood for the stove and fireplaces, fed and took care of the animals, emptied the ashes and even worked at the church making repairs there. He had restored the dilapidated stone fence, digging out rocks to fit in the spaces and even dug a new well. He considered the articles of clothing his the same as if he had walked into the mercantile and paid for them out of his own pocket.

"Leave it," the pastor said. He wanted antagonize Esau, get a reaction from him, some passion. "I paid for all that and they stay. Just get out and take nothing with you but the clothes on your back."

Esau braced himself, his hands forming and then releasing fists. He considered beating the man, longed to but that would, besides upsetting Mrs. Obermeyer and leaving her thinking he was a cruel brute and had deceived her, knew that the law would then be after him. "I said get out and take nothing with you," the pastor said again, hoping again to provoke Esau.

Esau sighed and then smiled, chilling the pastor. "I want nothing from you anyway. Nothing at all. We owe each other nothing." And he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off the leather boots he had been wearing. He tossed them aside and they landed heavily on the wooden floor. Then he pulled off his shirt and slipped off his trousers and stood glowing like a pagan god of ages past as the moonlight bathed his skin.

The pastor's voice wouldn't serve him and because he couldn't utter a sound, he watched as Esau slipped out the window and soundlessly disappeared—and a sob caught in his throat.

Esau pulled out his clothing he had hidden in the cowshed. He held the pieces of his previous life in his hands and glanced at them. It seemed a hundred years since he had last worn them and then he noticed the dark stain on the shoulder of the shirt; it was Mosane's blood; he had forgotten that. A choking sound escaped his throat and then he felt shamed for his desire for Rosamunde. Hadn't he loved Mosane, wanted to put his marriage cloak about their shoulders and walk her to his wikiup in front of the whole tribe? Hadn't he wanted to lie with her and give her his children? And now, she was just part of his past that could never be revived because it was in ashes.

But a man can't dwell on what is lost—it makes him weak-only women, Esau learned living with the Wazhazhe, grieved excessively for the loss of loved ones—it was their concern. So in the semi-darkness amid the shuffling of the two cows who believed they were going to be fed and milked, Esau quickly dressed, pulling on the buckskin shirt. It had been loose when Habazi made it and decorated it but it now fit well over his broad shoulders. He tied the breechclout about his waist and wiping dirt off the bottom of his feet, slipped them into his tall boots. And standing, he slipped the bear claw strand about his neck, touching it, feeling the smoothness of the huge claws. And he glanced back once at the rectory and then headed for the Gerhardt's.

Rosamunde leaned out her bedroom window. "Esau, what…it's late."

"I have to see you. I've been thrown out. I have to leave and I want you to come with me. Please, Rosamunde…"

She thought quickly. "Go to the kitchen door. I'll let you in."

Rosamunde soundlessly slipped down the staircase and into the kitchen where she carefully opened the door and saw an Indian standing before her. She was frightened until she realized it was Esau who reached for her and pulled her into his arms, covering her mouth with his hot one.

She pulled away despite his wanting to keep her pressed against him, despite his strong arms about her. Her heart thudded—suddenly he frightened her. He was now demanding man, no longer a pleading young lover.

"Esau, we can't..." Rosamunde tried to think. "Come inside." He stepped inside and she pressed shut the door, not knowing what to expect but she knew they couldn't stand in the kitchen; Esau was difficult to control, that she knew, and obviously, something had happened as he was dressed like a savage. Putting a finger to her lips, Rosamunde took his hand and led him to her room. As soon as they were inside, she threw her arms about his neck and they kissed, his hands caressing her.

"Esau, why are you here again? What happened?"

"Come with me, Rosamunde. Marry me-be my wife."

"I…Esau, we've talked about this…" But she felt the passion she always felt with him rise inside her, warm her belly and so she took his hand again and led him to her maiden's bed. She knew what was going to happen, to what she was going to consent and yet was afraid, but she allowed it because she loved the strange young man with his fears and his vulnerabilities and his strengths. And his beauty that burned into her very being from the first time she set eyes on him.

In the darkness, Esau and Rosamunde lay wrapped about each other. "So in the Osage tribe, this means the people are married?"

"Yes. The man wraps his cloak around the woman he has chosen. If she wants him, she stays with him and then he takes her to his bed. They are married from that moment on." Esau kept the other aspects of the courtship and marriage to himself. The female's family could refuse to accept the man if they desired another brave for their daughter. There was also the exchange of gifts and the public feast but he knew that here, between the two of them, nothing could happen that even resembled the community interest in the wedded couple. He had witnessed many marriages while sitting in the pew with Mrs. Obermeyer while the pastor conducted the ceremonies, smiled at the noisy shivarees for the bride and groom and knew about the gifts from the community; the Osage and white man's rituals had more in common than anyone would believe but Esau decided his silence was best.

"Esau…" Rosamunde raised her head and looked at the man who had been so tender and yet so demanding as the night wore on into morning, "I want to be married in a church. You'll do that for me, won't you? I'm just sad my parents can't know and be there. I always dreamed of a wedding dress and my father giving me away and just…you know. The whole celebration. I would like to share my happiness but I suppose that's impossible now, isn't it?"

"I…." He pushed aside a strand of hair from her face. "I'm sorry about your disappointment but, Rosamunde…I'll make you happy." He grabbed her by her upper arms and sat up in bed. "I'll work hard and give you everything you need—a house, clothes, food, all the things a person needs." He pulled her to him again and kissed her but she quickly pulled away and looked to her bedroom door. She had heard a sound and surprising herself, she wished they would be caught. Esau's promises were not what she wanted but then she had never thought any further than their next kiss. Living with the Obermeyers, Rosamunde had always expected that Esau would find a well-paying position and that she would walk down the town's sidewalks the envy of all the other females. She would have not only a handsome husband but live in the biggest house in Hays City and wear clothes made in New York. And Now she realized that if she married Esau, most of her dream would never come true.

"Esau…you have to go. My father's up and that means that my mother will be starting breakfast if she isn't already." She looked at him pleadingly, "Please Esau!"

"No. I want to tell them about us. Rosamunde, if we're going to marry like…" He almost said, "like the white man," but stopped himself. "I want to tell them. We need to tell them—both of us."

The sun was beginning to light the room and Rosamunde saw Esau as he was. He was still beautiful, still desirable and yet she knew she could never marry him. She couldn't wander about while he looked for work, sleep on the ground before they had a shelter, bear children by crouching in the dirt and silently dropping the child the way a mare does. And yet she wanted nothing more than to feel his mouth on hers, hear his voice whisper in her ear at night and to feel his hard muscles as he pressed her to him.

"I can't marry you, Esau. What you're talking about isn't the life I want—the life I've dreamed about. I'm not an Indian. I can't live like they do, having nothing but skins to wear and eating roots and berries and dried buffalo meat. I won't wear my hair in braids and go for months without bathing. You have to understand…"

Esau heard nothing else. Rosamunde didn't want him. That was all that mattered. He rose from the bed and picked his clothes up from the floor.

"Esau, listen. We can still…" But Rosamunde knew by the way Esau's face had changed that there would be nothing more between them. She no longer existed for him and despite trying to touch him, to make him understand, Esau dressed and never even said goodbye as he left her room, soundlessly went down the stairs and out the front door.

"Emma? Did you hear the front door open?" Mr. Gerhardt asked his wife who was frying bacon in a skillet.

"No. did you?"

"I don't know. I'm going to check." Mr. Gerhardt walked into the parlor but the front door was closed. And then he noticed that the bolt was pulled. He called up the stairs.

"Rosamunde? Rosamunde? Are you up there?" He waited. He tamped down any suspicions that arose about his daughter slipping out early and her meeting that Obermeyer ward. But he was relieved when his daughter appeared on the top landing.

"Yes. You woke me up. Is anything wrong?" Her voice sounded uneven and she rubbed her eyes, not really looking at her father.

"No, my dear, nothing's wrong. But breakfast is almost ready. Wash up and come down."

"Yes, Father." She turned and disappeared.

Mr. Gerhardt stood puzzled for a moment—his daughter looked as if she had been crying. He glanced back at the front door. Perhaps he had forgotten to throw the bolt last night. And perhaps Rosamunde's eyes were just tried—she had been rubbing them. He tried to remember if had locked the front door. It wasn't a memorable task but then why would it be? And he had forgotten to lock the door before. Then he shook his head and went back into the kitchen to tell his wife he was getting old and forgetful.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

**Thirteen**

"Hoss," Ben said wearily "I know tomorrow's a full day for you, that you have to make an early start but…" Ben Cartwright, sitting in his favorite chair by the fire, looked down at his hands. He suddenly saw them with new eyes, how old they looked, calloused and covered with brown spots from his years working in the hot Nevada sun. And he was weary in both body and spirit. The last two days he had felt much older than his 58 years but, he surmised, guilt did that—burdened a man, bogged him down so that he couldn't even breathe fully.

Tomorrow Hoss was leaving at the first light for the cattle drive. Joe was upstairs asleep, excited that his father had finally capitulated and allowed him to go along. The ranch hands were all asleep in the bunkhouse or soon would be since they would need to arise before sunup as well.

Esau had remained aloof when the hands came back to bathe and prepare for the drive. When Ben suggested that he could move into the bunkhouse after they left, Esau replied he would prefer to sleep in the tack room as long as there were no objections. Ben said no and Esau set out to guard the huge herd until the morning when the drive began. Hoss had provided him with a rifle "to make quick work of any creature threatening the cattle—four footed or two." There had been minor cattle rustling as there usually was every spring and four steer had been downed by wolves. But the corral was full of horses for the remuda and Joe had already fed and watered them before bed as was his job; his job on the drive would be the same thing, assisting the wrangler by doing all the "shit" work as they called it. But Ben was bothered by recurring memories of when he lost his first son and was compelled to tell Hoss about his troubled conscience.

"What is it, Pa? I'm plenty tired."

"Sit down, son." Hoss did but he also felt a bit uncomfortable. His father was upset, bothered by something. Was it about putting him in charge of the cattle drive? This was to be his first one without playing second to his father but the past year had been a bad one for his father so Hoss had finally convinced him to stay home. All the hard work Ben had endured over the years had beaten his body in ways that nothing else could. Many mornings just getting out of bed was excruciating for Ben, his lower back having taken abuse for so many years radiated pain at holding him upright.

And Joe was still too young to take along, that Hos knew was worrying his father as well. But Joe he had pleaded and begged to go, insisting he could be of help. Even though Joe had finished up the 8th level at school, Ben felt Joe was still too young for much responsibility and there weren't many ways he could take on any without jeopardizing either the stock or other men's safety. Hoss, despite being only 22, was going as the representative of the Ponderosa to close the deal on paper and he worked as hard as any drover and the men respected him for that. But Hoss knew that the role of head man wasn't comfortable and that he wouldn't have much time to deal with Joe. Hoss was much happier leaving all the decisions to his father or anyone with more experience but he was a Cartwright and that meant something to the men. But as least the ranch foreman was going along and Stumpy, one of the hands, was a good wrangler and would keep the horses in the remuda healthy, checking them every time they were switched out—usually two to three times a day; a man never took his own horse, that is if he had one—many ranch hands didn't. And Stumpy swore that he would keep a watchful eye over Joe.

"I know that you're worried about me bein' in charge without you along, Pa, and Joe goin' for the first time but I promise I'll set on him like a hen on an egg—watch over him day and night as much as I can. And when we get to Abilene, I won't let him visit no sportin' houses or have a beer neither. And you're probably worried 'bout all the hands bein' gone 'cause you couldn't hire enough drovers to keep a few on the Ponderosa, but I done told Esau all 'bout what I do 'round here 'case you need any help at the mines or with the timberin'. Hell, I didn't know I did so much 'til I told 'im. And we told 'im 'bout what to do iffen he comes across a maverick steer or one with McClure's Rockin' M brand and if he forgets, he can just ask you. I know Joe took care of the barn but you gotta admit Esau does it better. And Esau, well, he seems mighty smart—mighty smart. A helluva smarter than me—a helluva lot smarter than just 'bout anyone I know. You ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout, Pa, 'cause…"

Ben looked up and Hoss wasn't sure if his father was confused or annoyed. "No, Hoss, it's nothing like that. I…" Ben sighed and Hoss waited, more worried now than before. "I know you'll take care of Joe…"

"Then what is it, Pa?"

"Hoss….do you remember when you were about four and asked me about your mother and I showed you the family Bible, where I had written about your mother's…passing? And I showed you your name and birth also written in the Bible? Do you remember?"

"Not really, Pa. I do remember that you wrote 'bout marrying Joe's momma and then his bein' born. I 'member askin' you what you was writin'—it was on a new page and you told me that you was writin' on a new page 'cause it was new beginnings. And then when…." Hoss stopped himself. His father had been bereft—inconsolable-when Marie died, when she had broken her neck in a horseback riding accident. Hoss didn't want to remind his father of his loss and it had taken at least a year after her demise before his father had been able to chronicle her death but Hoss never looked at the back of the family Bible again and neither did Joe. They had no reason to stir up any grief, a reminder that their mothers had died and for Hoss, it was a double sense of loss. Besides, to look at people's births and deaths for generations past didn't interest either brother. In Nevada territory, what a man was, was more important than who his ancestors had been.

"Yes, I remember that too. But when I had showed you the Bible the first time, do you remember that you asked about all the other names?" Hoss shook his head. "Well, you did and I told you that they were all family members, most of whom had died." Hoss sat quietly, waiting so Ben rose from his chair. "Come with me."

Ben and Hoss walked to the long, narrow, maple table behind the settee that held a lamp and the family Bible. Ben opened the heavy book and turned to the back of it.

"Do you see this name?"

Hoss looked and read aloud, "Adam Stoddard Cartwright, firstborn son of Ben…" Hoss looked at his father whose shoulders were slumped. "What're you sayin', Pa? Why you tellin' me all about this now? You tellin' me I coulda had an older brother? It says here he was presumed dead. That means you don't really know, doesn't it?"

"Yes." Ben's voice broke and Hoss felt awkward. The only other time he had seen his father cry, was when Marie died. To see his father's vulnerability embarrassed him and he didn't know how to handle it. His father had always comforted him. Even when he was steeped in grief himself over Marie's death, he had held his two sobbing sons and kissed their bowed heads, trying his best to console them.

Hoss placed a large hand on his father's shoulder. "It's okay, Pa. You don't have to say anything else."

"No." Ben looked up and then, closed the Bible with a thud. "I have to explain it to you. The only other person I've talked about it with was Joe's mother but now…I have to tell you."

"Okay, Pa. Iffen you feel the need to tell me…let's sit down." Hoss guided his father to the settee and as his father began to talk, he stared into the fire.

"We were in Utah Territory…it stretched for miles. We needed to meet up with our supply wagon at Ash Hollow before the snows or we wouldn't get through and were so close—only two or three weeks at the most. And your mother, well, it was difficult to tell how long it would be until your birth. She…suffered sleepless nights, swollen legs and…pain. Oh she tried to dismiss the pain as just a thing women have but…" Ben paused to control himself; he felt close to breaking down now that he was reliving it. "Mrs. Jorgenson, one of the women traveling, she let me know that Inger's condition was serious because you were so large. There might be complications, she told me so I worried. Especially when I would hear your moher moan at night and sigh so pathetically. I wasn't supposed to hear her but…I loved her and feared for her.

"My son, mine and Elizabeth's son, Adam, he…." Ben stopped again—then when he felt he could, he continued. "One evening, he got into a fight with another boy. I don't even remember what it was over but I punished him, whipped him and left him to consider. He wouldn't apologize as I told him to and I was embarrassed—I punished him severely because I was embarrassed. It was my pride—pride goeth before a fall—that caused his…it was my fault. Adam was a hard-headed child but I was his father and should have looked after him better. I had once told your mother that Adam had a head made of New England granite."

Hoss smiled at that.

"Adam was as stubborn as his mother—and I loved them both and lost them both Anyway, Adam disappeared—ran off and became lost, was dragged off by an animal—I don't know. After a while, your mother went to call him for dinner and…." Ben swallowed deeply, his eyes filling with tears. "She couldn't find him. None of us could. We called, we searched and the next morning we searched again all day and no one found anything—not a trace of him. We took up the search again the next morning, but when we still found nothing, the others wanted to go on. The snows were coming—the wind and clouds told us that, and we wouldn't make it to Ash Hollow, wouldn't be able to find the pass if it was covered in snow. Since we'd found no body, no tracks, nothing, they said to search any longer was useless, but I was determined to stay, to search for him. If Adam was dead, I wanted to bury his body. If he was alive, I wanted him back.

"But there was your mother. She said she wanted to stay behind with me, that she wanted to help search. I wanted to send her on. The Jorgenson's said she could go with them but she refused to leave me—to leave Adam. She cried constantly—she loved my son, loved Adam—your brother. She would sing to him and tell him stories, taught him to read—spoiled him as she did me. Your mother was an angel on this earth—good and kind and beautiful. So I had to make a decision: stay and search longer and risk Inger's life and yours or go on and abandon the search for Adam. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my whole life. Even as many years as I've lived, nothing has destroyed my peace of mind, my sleep, my conscience like that decision. I still think, what if…even though there's no way of knowing what would have happened if I'd stayed."

"Pa," Hoss said quietly. "I can't say I understand you pain—I ain't never had to make a decision like that and hope to God I never do, but sometimes…a man's gotta forgive himself."

"I can't Hoss—never." Ben broke into a sob and quickly covered his mouth.

"What brought all this up? The timin'—is it 'cause you're afraid of losin' Joe? I won't let nothin' happen to him…"

Ben put up his hand to silence Hoss. "No, I'll worry about Joe but he won't be alone. He'll have more than a dozen nursemaids. It was…."

"Esau?" He got anything to do with this? He blackmailin' you or somethin'?"

Ben sighed. "No, he's not blackmailing me. It's just that…when he sat at the table-at the foot of the table as an eldest son would, it just seemed that the table was complete. I had always felt a loss whenever I would look at the empty chair across from me and think about Adam, that if I hadn't punished him, if only I hadn't…"

Ben dropped his head in his hands.

"Pa. In the mornin' you'll feel better—the sun does that for a man. A new day is a new day. I know there ain't nothin' I can say to make things better for you and I know it may seem to you like you traded one son for another, but that ain't the way it was. And I'm grateful that I'm alive and am your son. I think you're the finest man I know."

Ben turned and smiled at Hoss. "Thank you, Hoss. Thank you. Now why don't you get that sleep you need. You've got a long day ahead of you. You'll be herding cattle and Joe at the same time." Ben smiled.

"Okay. G'night, Pa." Hoss went to the stairs but as he put his hand on the newel post he turned. "Pa, you want me to tell Joe 'bout…his lost brother?"

"No, no. One day I'll tell him. One day when it'll mean more to him."

Hoss just nodded and then went up the stairs. And Ben was left alone with himself and all the horrors of the memory of abandoning his son somewhere in Utah Territory so many years ago. So many years ago.

"And just like chickens, the sins of the father come home to roost." Ben hadn't told Hoss all that he thought or felt but Esau, that man in some way resurrected all his feelings about the son he had abandoned over twenty years ago. It was his eyes, his gaze and the mouth. That gentle mouth that was in such contrast with the rest of him. Adam, his child, had a mouth like that, sweet and soft—like an angel's, Inger would say, like a precious putti decorating her childhood church.

Ben stretched and decided he would have another brandy—and maybe another. Enough to make him forget his misery and either allow him to sleep at last or cause him to black out; he didn't care which as long as he didn't have to think anymore.

~ 0 ~

"Pa, now don't worry. I done told you—everybody's gonna be watchin' out for Joe. I told the wrangler to work 'im so hard he ain't even gonna have the energy to think about gettin' into trouble." Hoss sat on a horse ready to ride out. The other drovers had left to check for any straying steer and to circle the whole group of cattle. Joe was sitting on his horse, urging Hoss and his father to stop talking and to go.

"I know, Hoss, I know. But if anything happens to him…" Ben looked up at Hoss, "Or you, I don't know what I would do."

"That why you told me about…about your first boy, my older brother? You worried about somethin' happening to Joe?"

"Not just Joe. Hoss, I came close to losing you as well and I…" Ben couldn't speak anymore. "And besides, maybe something will happen to me. You needed to know before I die."

"Pa, you ain't gonna die."

Ben chuckled. "I hope not, son. You just watch out and don't take any risks—push too much. You'll get the herd to Abilene when you do."

"I'll wire you once we get there. That ease your mind a bit?"

Ben smiled; he didn't feel like smiling but there was no need to burden Hoss with anything else.

"C'mon, Hoss, let's go." Joe kept circling his horse, his eagerness for adventure being transmitted to his horse who seemed anxious as well.

"Pa, Joe's 'bout to bounce outta his saddle. We best get out and help with the herd."

"I know." Ben stepped back. "Have a good trip, son. Stay safe."

"I will and so will Joe, even if I gotta hog-tie and stow him in the chuck wagon ever night." Hoss kicked his horse and with a little whoop echoed by Joe, the two rode out of the yard and off to the pasture where the teeming herd was waiting. Ben waved after his two departed sons but they didn't look back—their eyes were focused ahead.

Esau stood leaning on the fence at the backside of the corral, having earlier helped gather the horses for the remuda. Hoss had waved to him as he rode out and Esau had waved back. And with Joe and Hoss' departure, the yard suddenly seemed silent. Esau looked to his father who still stood looking off into the distance. Then he seemed to gather himself and suddenly noticed Esau was watching him. Ben was suddenly embarrassed, aware that his fear for his sons showed on his face and in his posture.

"Well, Esau," Ben called out, "how about driving me into town? I need to check the mail, fill Hop Sing's canned foods list and I'll buy you a pair of work boots."

"Thank you, but if you think I need a sturdier pair of boots, I'll buy my own. But I'll be glad to drive you; maybe have a beer. I'll go hitch up the buckboard."

Esau brought out the two stabled buggy horses to hitch to the buckboard resting beside the barn. The two fancy buggies were around back in the carriage house.

Ben, sitting on the porch, watched Esau's loose, easy walk. There was something about Esau that caused him anxiety but what, he couldn't identify. So Ben just put it down to the man's bluntness. But then Indians weren't known to lie, didn't seem to know why someone would "say the thing that wasn't," as the Paiute people put it. Perhaps Esau had absorbed the double-edged virtue of truthfulness. Maybe only white men lied so much that a man could never be sure of anything, what was truth and what wasn't.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

**A guest reviewer commented on Ben's age, that it was assumed Ben was 20 when Adam was born. I have heard Ben was 20, 21, 25 and various other ages when Adam was born. I decided on 28. To me, considering Ben's years at sea and his experiences, he would have been about 26/27 when he married Elizabeth. But things such as ages, including the span between brothers' ages, is fluid.**

 **Fourteen**

Sheriff Roy Coffee looked up from his desk, adjusting his glasses to see who had entered his office. "Mornin', Ben. Nice day, ain't it?" Roy put his pencil down on the desk top.

"Morning, Roy. Yeah, it's a nice one." Ben sat down in a wooden chair on the opposite side of the desk.

"Want some coffee? Just put on a fresh pot."

"No, no. No thank you. You have a minute?"

"Sure. I'm about to make my rounds after I check my paperwork but let me pour myself a cup and we can pass the time for a bit." Roy rose and noticed that Ben Cartwright didn't look up, just propped his elbows on the chair arms and seemed in thought. Roy sat back down with his thick-walled, white ceramic mug that held steaming coffee. "What's bothering you, Ben? Something to do with the cattle drive? I heard Joe's goin' along for the first time."

"How'd you hear that?" Ben sat upright. "It wasn't decided until late last night."

Roy grinned. "Well, Virginia City's still a small town but that won't last long with all these strangers movin' in. Why I have to go through these wanted posters near about very morning to see if one of our new neighbors isn't a wanted man. Anyway, Clarence French saw Hoss and Joe this morning and stopped to talk for a bit. I saw French this morning and he told me all about it. Said Joe was grinning ear to ear. Surprised you let him go along. He's not yet 16, is he?"

"No, he's not. I didn't want to let him go but…well, that's not why I'm here. I hired a new man to stay on the Ponderosa and take care of all the things that the hands or Hoss would and now, what Joe does as well."

"That's a lot of responsibility for one man."

"Yes but he seems able—more than able and sharp. Anyway, I was wondering if I could go through your wanted posters just to see if he's wanted for anything. He might be hiding out at the Ponderosa to escape the law."

"Well if you thought he was a hunted man, why'd you hire him? Seems a little like closing the barn door…"

"I know, Roy, I know." Ben held up one hand to stave off any more criticism. "I don't need a lecture from you."

"Now just simmer down. What's this new man's name?" Roy gathered the posters on his desk.

"Esau."

"Esau what?"

"Just Esau. He says he has no last name. Told Hoss he spent his childhood living with the Osage so I guess he forgot his real name."

"Since when is Esau an Indian name?"

"It's not. It never was and I doubt it ever will be. Now can I see those posters or not?" Ben was practically shouting in exasperation.

"Just settle down, Ben."

"Don't tell me to settle down. I swear, Roy, sometimes you act like a doddering…" Ben stopped himself.

"Go on, Ben," Roy said. "You were saying something about my being a doddering…a doddering what?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry, Roy. I don't why I'm so short-tempered. I haven't slept well the last two nights."

"It's all right-I understand. Now, these are the latest wanted posters—came in this morning." He handed the thin stack to Ben and stood up. "I'll pull out the files for the past two years."

So as Roy watched, Ben looked through the posters—all of them for the past two years, scanning the sketches, looking for the familiar face, and when he was finished, he didn't know if he was relieved or not; Esau wasn't on any of them, not by that name or any other.

"Well, he's not there, Roy. I think I'll have that cup of coffee after all."

~ 0 ~

The two old friends, Roy Coffee and Ben Cartwright, stood on the wooden planking that served as a sidewalk and glanced up and down the busy street, discussing the new buildings coming up and the danger of no specific plan for the town's growth. But the west side of town seemed to become relegated to saloons and whore houses—the better parts of town being the eastern end with the homes and the beginning of an opera house. It hadn't been that long ago that Virginia City was called Gold Hill. Since the discovery of the Comstock Lode, people had swarmed to the area, determined to make their fortune. The sounds of hammers rang out from early morning until just before dark—after dark the jangle of pianos and the raucous laughter of saloon maids and rowdy men became the dominant sound.

Whether the sudden growth with all its problems of claim jumping, drunks shooting up the town as well as each other was a boon or a curse, wasn't yet to be seen—at least by either Ben or Sheriff Coffee. But a good portion of the pine boards that were used to raise up buildings and their fancy facades came from the Ponderosa. Ben's biggest cattle-raising rival, Frank McClure, didn't have a timber business on his land as his 150 acres encompassed mainly grazing land and quite a bit of scrub land inhabited mainly by rattle snakes and skinny coyotes. In the past, McClure often accused Ben of buying up all the best land. But, McClure would add, had he been there one month earlier than Ben instead of one month later, Ben would've been left with only the mountainous section of the Ponderosa. And then McClure stopped saying that and secretly cursed his rival's luck as Ben discovered two rich silver deposits in the mountain sides and opened the JFC and the EBC mines. And then Ben discovered a Turquoise mine that also held rich deposits of copper and money poured in hand over fist; he named that the ESC mine for his first wife. Ben Cartwright became the wealthiest man in the whole Nevada Territory, but Frank McClure had one thing Ben didn't, one thing that made him feel superior-a young, beautiful wife.

"There he is," Ben said. "Walking toward us."

"Who?" Roy asked.

Ben sighed in frustration. "Who were we just talking about?"

"We weren't talkin' about anyone—just all the building goin' on."

"No, Esau, the new man. He's walking toward us holding the parcels. He's wearing a black Stetson—must be new. He had been wearing a weather-beaten, mud-colored hat."

"Nice lookin' young man." Roy noticed something odd about Esau but decided not to mention it—not yet.

Esau noticed that Ben his father and the older man alongside him were watching his approach and when he finally reached them, he refrained from returning the pleasant smile on the sheriff's face; the man wore a badge and Esau wanted "no truck" with the law. He had been tossed into jail or asked to leave towns by sheriff's many times during his solitary wanderings.

"Mr. Cartwright, I'm taking these parcels to the buckboard. That's all right, isn't it?"

"Of course; you don't have to ask me."

"Well, you are the boss." Esau glanced back and forth between the two men. There was an easiness between them and Esau knew they were good friends. He started to leave but Ben wanted him to stay, wanted Roy Coffee to assess the new man.

"Did you find any boots you like?" Ben asked as a pleasantry; he saw a pair of boots tucked over Esau's arm and the string-tied parcel in his hand that more than likely contained a few durable work shirts.

"I found a pair that'll do." Esau kept glancing at Roy Coffee. The man looked intelligent to him—his eyes missing nothing, appraising everyone he met—but his face embodied benevolence.

"Esau," Ben said, "this is our sheriff, Roy Coffee."

"Son," Roy said and tipped his hat. "Welcome to Virginia City. Hope you aren't one for shooting up a town on Friday nights."

"No," Esau said straight-faced," I prefer Saturdays."

Roy sucked in his cheeks to keep from laughing.

"Oh, well," Ben flushed. He wasn't sure if Esau was joking or not but then he saw Frank McClure coming down the sidewalk, his wife on his arm. Ben felt annoyed when McClure stopped a few paces away from them.

"Ben, Roy, lovely day isn't it?"

Esau turned. He showed no emotion, but felt punched in the gut, all the wind knocked from him. He knew the young woman—she was as dark as Rosamunde had been blonde, as soiled when he met her as Rosamunde had been pure. And she stood on the sunny sidewalk of Virginia City, a light-pink silk parasol held over her head and dressed in a soft rose suit, ruffles of ecru lace at the necklace and her arm through the older man's.

If the woman recognized Esau, she gave no indication, just turned her glance to her husband. Esau took it as a signal that he and she were conspirators—at least he hoped-so he said nothing nor even moved, except to shift his weight predominantly to one foot.

"Morning, Mrs. McClure," Ben said, smiling broadly; Mrs. Poppy McClure was a delightful young thing, radiantly lovely. Both Ben and Roy tipped their hats while she smiled gently in response. Esau didn't move, but then he had yet to be acknowledged by the woman or anyone else.

"So, your sons left on the drive this morning," McClure said. "Heard you finally let Joe go along. "Bout time you let him be a man."

Esau watched his father and McClure. The bantering seemed to be familiar to the men, actually seemed to be something they may enjoy and the air practically crackled with energy, both men pulling themselves to their full heights. Had they been roosters, their cock's combs would have been erect and they would have fluffed up their feathers to appear more imposing.

"Frank, Joe's only 15—will be 16 in a few months. He's growing up fast enough. Besides, I don't see that how I raise my youngster is any of your concern. But speaking of sons, how's Anders? I haven't seen him in a bit?"

Esau saw Poppy turn her head as if to remove herself from the situation. Something unpleasant had happened and Esau felt it had something to do with McClure's son. And Poppy. _It wouldn't surprise me,_ Esau thought. _Wouldn't surprise me at all._

"Anders is fine. I believe he's still in San Francisco." McClure straightened up as if regaining his dignity. "Well, my drovers left yesterday afternoon for Abilene. I had hired so many I was running out of room for them in the bunk house-the overflow had to sleep in the barn. They just might beat your herd to Abilene. Shame. That drives down the price of beef for the second herd."

"Well, we'll see."

"By the way, Ben, you haven't had us over lately. Poppy is still talking about Hop Sing's twice-cooked pork." Poppy McClure looked at her husband and by the surprised expression on her face, everyone knew that Frank McClure was wrangling a dinner invitation for some unknown reason.

Ben smiled to himself. He knew that McClure was hoping to win Hop Sing away and have him cook at the Rocking M. But Ben also knew that Hop Sing would never leave and enjoyed hearing McClure try to woo the Chinese man with his effusive compliments.

"Well, how about tonight? I'll be leaving town shortly and Hop Sing'll have more than enough pork to make the dish. He slaughtered a nice young hog just yesterday. About eight?"

"We'll be there. Come along, my dear."

Roy had clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on his boot heels during the interaction. But he again nodded as McClure excused himself, said good-day to Ben and Roy, and walked on down the sidewalk, his wife still on his arm. But she glanced back once and locked eyes with Esau who had remained silent through the exchange. He hoped Poppy trusted he would say nothing about her—nothing. And that she should say nothing about him.

"I'll go pick up that grain you said was waiting. Miller's Feed and Grain?" Esau asked.

"Yes. That would be fine. Go ahead." Ben and Roy both watched Esau walk to the parked buckboard, climb up and head for the feed store.

"You know," Roy said as he steepled his fingers in front of him, "that boy could be related to you."

"What? Why do you say that?" Ben's heart thudded.

"Well, he's barrel-chested like you and Hoss and he's got that same Cartwright walk all three of you have—including Joe-that cock of the walk gait."

Ben was silenced. He had no response. "Roy, if you're free tonight, how about dinner. You like Hop Sing's cooking."

"Much as I like it, some of that spicy stuff gives me a bit of dyspepsia—and so does McClure although I should chance it seeing as how I could look at Mrs. McClure all evening. She is one beautiful woman."

"Roy, you're nothing but a dirty old man."

"Well," Roy said with a slight smile, "it takes one to recognize another. Now I gotta make my rounds—got a town to keep orderly. Have a nice day, Ben."

Ben watched Roy head across the street, dodging wagons loaded with timber and stroll down the sidewalk. "Cock of the walk, my ass!" Ben said to himself. Then, tipping his hat to the ladies he passed, Ben walked toward Miller's Feed and Grain.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

**Fifteen**

"Esau!" Ben called out as he headed for the large paddock. Esau was exercising the barn horses. Releasing them into the corral wasn't enough—the animals needed to be exercised, put through their paces and be reminded that they were riding animals. It was necessary so the animals would heed the pressure of a heel or of a rider's calves. But in a small act of rebellion, the chestnut stallion tossed his head about as Esau rode him. Chubb stood tied outside of the fence by the trough, his coat where the saddle had been, slick with sweat.

Esau rode the chestnut over to the fence.

"He's a difficult one to handle, isn't he?" Ben asked, smiling, admiring the horse.

"Not too bad. He's sensitive though—high energy and always thinking. I might need to exercise him two or three times a day and not just in the paddock but out on the property."

Ben reached out to rub the horse's nose but it tossed its head again. Ben placed his hand back on the top fence rail. "Well, I tell you what. Why don't you ride him as you check the west line and search the area; take the rifle. We've had that problem with rustlers, wolves and such and there might still be some 'predators.' Seems as if you could give that pony of yours a rest for a while."

"I'll ride my own horse. Thanks anyway."

"You'd be doing me a favor. I've been thinking I might have to sell him. He'd make a good stud but if he's this energetic, well, just bring a hot mare near him and he might kick down a wall to get to her-stomp on anyone in his way."

"Mr. Cartwright," Esau said, leaning backward on one hand, "I'm not a child to be deluded by the idea that my riding a flashy horse would be doing you a favor. If you think you're being magnanimous, you're not. I admire him—he's full of spirit and if you want me to ride him instead of my own horse to give him the exercise he needs, just tell me. I'm not easier to play on than a pipe, you know. You're the boss. Just give me orders."

Ben felt guilty at being caught in his own machinations. He had intended to make of gift of the chestnut to Esau since Hoss preferred his own horse and Ben felt Joe was far too young, reckless and inexperienced to sit such a horse. But Ben suspected the young man wouldn't accept such a valuable gift so felt if he made the young man think he was doing him a favor by accepting…but Esau wasn't a boy. "Okay—ride him."

"What's his name?" Esau asked, patting the horse's neck.

"The papers say his name is Outright Sporting Chance. I bought him from Kentucky. Call him what you want." Esau nodded. "Oh, and Esau…" Ben shifted his stance, "since it's just you on the place, I was wondering…" Ben felt silly. Esau was right; he wasn't a child to be manipulated. "Would you come to dinner tonight. Remember the couple in town? Frank McClure and I aren't friends—business rivals actually and I'd like someone else there—you know, to act as a buffer."

"I'd rather not. Besides, won't his wife do that? Act as a 'buffer'?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"If it's all the same, thank you, but no. Is there anything else?"

"Um….no," Ben said. And then Esau turned the horse about and at his urging, the chestnut began loping around the perimeter of the paddock in a slow canter. Esau was a conundrum. Ben wondered about Esau's use of the word "magnanimous." And the bit about being "played on like a pipe"—Ben had heard that phrase before or read it somewhere. Where would a man who had lived half his life with Indians and kicked about the western territory for the rest of the time learn a word like that or hear and remember a quote? Half the time Esau spoke like a modest, under-educated ranch hand and the other half, like a man who had been schooled in the classics. Ben decided that Esau was hiding who he really was, merely putting on a pretense of being ignorant. But why he would do so, Ben didn't know. And so he was puzzled—a feeling he didn't like at all.

Esau watched Frank McClure and his wife Poppy drive up in a fancy buggy. She looked more beautiful with age, more lush and ripe, but then, he remembered, she had only just turned 18 when he met her. Sitting on the edge of a horse trough, Esau fed the orange tabby cat some bits of pork left over from the kitchen where he had just eaten his dinner of spiced, braised pig's feet over rice in a bowl that kept the thick sauce from spilling over on the table top. Hop Sing had also served him a large piece of maple cake with thick boiled icing and a glass of cool milk.

"You want more cake, ask," Hop Sing said as he placed the plates on the round kitchen table. "Now Mistah Hoss gone, I have much food left after."

Esau had been prepared to take his food back to the barn and his small room but Hop Sing insisted that he come in and sit down. "Bad for man's stomach to eat meals alone. Company at dinner like seasoning—make all food taste better."

Esau had smiled and decided he liked the cantankerous Chinese man; his beliefs were as simple and stated as candidly as the Osage beliefs—open and honest. They sat across from each other and Esau couldn't help but marvel at the amazing flavor of the dish.

"Feet and ears best part—good for you—help your manhood."

"Well, I don't know about that," but Esau had to agree—the "trotters" were delicious and savory although short on meat.

As Esau walked across the yard to the barn with the scraps of pork, the orange tabby had come crying, its tail straight up like a mast, when he smelled the food. "You're going to get too fat and too lazy to do any hunting if I keep feeding you," Esau said as the cat hunched to eat the meat and then raised a caterwaul for another scrap. "You won't have a taste for hunting anymore but I'll sleep better for it." The night before, the cat had woken him; it kept catching a mouse, playing with for short time, and then releasing it only to be caught again. Esau had lain in the dark and listened and realized that he was playing cat and mouse with his father. He had hated the man all those years, considered how he would exact his revenge if the time ever came but now he felt his resolve failing. He wondered about himself. What had changed him?

"Hey, boy," McClure called out, pulling his horse to a stop. "Come take my buggy."

Esau pursed his lips and considered. "Here," he said to the cat and dropped the few remaining scraps on the grass. He walked over to the buggy and held the horse's head. Ben walked out of the house, smiling. He was dressed as the perfect gentleman, the perfect host, with a white shirt, maroon string tie and a gray pinstriped suit.

As Esau silently held the horse's bridle, Ben lifted Mrs. McClure from the seat. Esau watched closely, waiting to see if she would acknowledge him. Poppy turned and glanced at Esau but didn't smile, offered no form of recognition, so after the three went into the house, Esau pulled the buggy to the side and unhitched the horse, leading it by its rope halter to the barn and put it in a stall until the McClure's left. It would probably be a long night and Esau wondered if he would come up during the conversation, perhaps raised by Poppy. But there was nothing he could do but wait and he went to his room to wait.

As Esau lay on his cot staring at the wood patterns in the ceiling boards, he heard footsteps and the horses shuffling in the stalls and sat up—waiting. It had finally come.

Hop Sing didn't have to knock on the tack room door—it was open, the lamp inside the only light in the dark barn.

"Mistah Cartwright say you come in house. Him want you. You come." Then, with a small bow, Hop Sing left.

Esau sighed. He stood up and considered slipping the smaller knife he owned into his boot but neither boot had the small pocket inside that his hide boots had. But it would serve no purpose so he slowly rose, feeling like a condemned man and waked across the yard to the big house, the windows ablaze with light and he dropped the door knocker on the thick oak door, lifted the latch and entered.

Ben and McClure were sitting at a small round table and McClure was shuffling a deck of cards. Poppy McClure sat in a side chair, her hands demurely folded in her lap.

Ben half rose. "Esau, we need another poker player. You familiar with the game?"

Esau was puzzled at first but when Poppy gave him a small nod, he felt relief; she had said nothing but then she couldn't without telling on herself as well, making it known to Ben Cartwright that she had once worked as a prostitute.

"I've played it a few times."

"Well, come join us. It's not high stakes."

"At least not yet," McClure said.

Esau wryly smiled. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to bet with and nothing either of you would want."

Ben thought. "You do now. Sporting Chance is yours. You can bet him. And here…" Ben rose and walked past Esau to his desk. He opened a drawer and took out a gray metal strongbox. He then lifted a vase on a nearby bookshelf, turned it over and out dropped a key.

"I guess you'll have to find a new hiding place now," Esau said.

Ben looked up as he unlocked the strongbox. "Well, there's not too much in here since the only ones I have to pay anything to is you and Hop Sing." Ben counted out some money. He walked over to Esau and proffered a stack of bills. "Three hundred and sixty dollars—a whole year's pay. You can have it now if you want it as a stake. I have a feeling that you're better at poker than you let on."

"Well, I guess we'll find out, won't we. But you're more than generous." Esau took both the money and a seat at the round table and the poker game began.

After three hours, Esau had more than doubled his money and Frank's disposition was worse than ever; he was a poor loser and Esau noticed that his father didn't care how much he lost as long as McClure lost more.

McClure slapped his cards on the tabletop. "What'd you do, Ben? Set me up with a ringer?"

Ben laughed, obviously enjoying McClure's frustration. "Not at all—never played with Esau before. Ready to quit? All in?"

McClure scowled. "One last chance—high card, just him and me."

Ben looked at Esau and noticed his slight smile. _The cat that swallowed the canary._

"All right, Mr. McClure. High card it is." Esau handed the deck to his father to shuffle. "What's your ante?"

"Tell you what, boy, I want that horse that Ben here gave you just to devil me, I'm sure—that's a beautiful piece of horseflesh. You put up the horse and I'll put up…" McClure went through his possessions. What would this ranch hand who had a two-days' growth of beard possibly want? "I'll put up… my…this." McClure reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a gold pocket watch along with its heavy gold-linked fob and placed it on the table.

"Why would I want that? I don't give a damn what time it is."

McClure was becoming angrier, more impatient. "It's gold—high karat gold—the fob chain too-and look," McClure said as he popped open the decoratively engraved cover studded with diamonds. "The numbers are marked by diamonds, rubies and sapphires." There were large diamonds at 12, 3, 6 and 9 o'clock and alternating rubies and blue sapphires indicating the others. "It's more valuable than that goddamn horse."

Esau picked up the watch, considering its heft. He placed the watch in the middle of the table. "All right. It's a bet."

Poppy McClure walked over to the table. She had been observing at a distance all evening, sipping and refilling a glass of sherry and Esau noticed she was a little unstable on her feet. She one hand on the back of her husband's chair and looked at Esau but gave nothing away by her expression. In the bright light of the lamp, Esau noticed a slight bluish-yellow tinge below her left eye. She had attempted to cover it with powder but there was no denying, even though it was fading, that it was a bruise as if someone had struck her.

"Okay," Ben said, "who draws first?"

"Go ahead, Mr. McClure," Esau said. He waited.

"You go ahead. Cut the deck and show—gives you a better chance—all the cards are there. No one can say I'm not sporting."

Esau nodded in agreement and cut the deck. He held up the 6 of diamonds and McClure chuckled.

"Looks like I've got a new horse and a watch to time his paces. Or maybe I'll just shoot him. I need a little target practice."

Esau's jaw tightened. He knew from the past few hours and from all that McClure had said and done—and by the bruise on Poppy's lovely face, that McClure would be spiteful enough to walk out to the barn, place a gun to the horse's head and fire. McClure was one of those men who believed that a man had the right to do anything he wanted with what he owned—even destroy it.

Esau and Ben waited while McClure cut the deck again and drew. And his face turned ashen. He tossed his card on the table and it slid off and to the floor. Poppy picked it up.

"A four of spades." She giggled as she displayed the card to Ben and Esau. "You lost, Frank. You lost!' She giggled again and then she clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes becoming big. Esau knew what would happen once McClure and his young wife arrived home—or he may not even wait that long but stop and slap her on the road.

"Let's go Poppy. Get your wrap." He grabbed her by the arm and roughly pulled her to the front door while Esau stood and Ben rushed to fetch Poppy's cape which was lying on the bed in the room downstairs.

Esau went out to hitch up McClure's buggy horse and for the ten minutes it took, Frank and Poppy McClure stood on the front porch, his hand tightly gripping her upper arm. Ben attempted to make small talk but Poppy was too afraid and McClure was too angry. Esau led out the horse and buggy. Poppy walked around and Esau helped her up to the buggy seat and while McClure and Ben Cartwright exchanged curt good-nights, Poppy whispered to Esau, "Meet me at the line shack on the Ponderosa's west property line—at ten in the morning. You have a watch now—don't be late."

Esau stepped back as McClure climbed up onto the seat and took the reins. Without a look back, Frank McClure snapped the reins and the horse, surprised by the stinging intensity, stepped back and then pulled rapidly away, causing Poppy to jerk backwards in the seat.

Ben walked over to Esau. He raised his hand to place it on the man's shoulder but refrained; the action seemed natural and yet he felt he should remain more formal.

"I'm afraid I caused trouble," Ben said. "I only meant to needle Frank but I didn't anticipate…" Ben looked own at his shiny dress boots. Then sighed. "But I should have. After Frank's insults in town and the things he said before you came in, insulting my sons and…well, I wanted to get even with him. It was petty of me and I'm afraid he's going to take his anger out on Poppy instead of me."

Esau glanced over at his father. _Maybe,_ Esau thought, _I come by my capacity to hate honestly._ "That why you gave me Sport?"

"Sport? Oh, Outright Sporting Chance. Well, a bit but you and-Sport, is it? Well, I haven't been able to find anyone else who could handle him so…"

"But you knew McClure wanted him."

"Yes, I did. McClure likes to collect beautiful things whether they be pieces of art or horseflesh."

"Or women," Esau added, picturing Poppy's face in all its resplendent beauty marred by the bruise.

Ben nodded in agreement. "True, true."

"Well," Esau said as he dug into his pocket, "here's your money back, Mr. Cartwright, and then some. Your investment paid off." Esau held out the folded bills of his winnings—almost $800.00.

"What? Oh…no, you won it, you keep it. Just don't expect to be paid for a year."

Esau grinned. "And what's to keep me from saddling up my new horse, taking my money and riding out tonight?"

"I guess nothing. But then what's to keep you from slipping into the house and slitting my throat while I sleep?"

"I'd have to have a reason to do that now, wouldn't I?" The two men stared at each and Ben was the first to look away. It was Esau's gaze—there was something familiar and yet…

"People have done worse things for no reason."

"I don't think so—there's always a reason, It's just that the reason doesn't make sense to others but to the person who commits the act, there's a reason. Sometimes it's just as simple as he felt like it and sometimes it's revenge. The only problem with revenge is that it has to be carried out passionlessly and the victim has to know why—why they're hated and why they're suffering or it's unsatisfying. If I wanted to slit your throat, I wouldn't do it while you were sleeping—I'd wake you up first and tell you why, tell you the reason."

"You seem to know a lot about revenge."

Esau smiled. "I've been schooled." He then turned and headed for the barn.

Ben watched the young man walk away and he felt a longing to invite him in to talk, to spend time in front of the fireplace and share stories. But Ben knew that Esau would refuse. So instead, he called out, "Goodnight." But Esau didn't acknowledge it, just kept walking.


	16. Chapter 16

**Sixteen**

The gold pocket watch indicated it was 9:48; Esau assumed it was accurate—but then he knew he had assumed too many things. His father's generosity to an unknown, untried hired man was uncommon, at least in Esau's experiences. The fact that McClure, from what his father revealed to him, had been politely insulting Hoss and Joe and doing what he could to diminish his rival's stature played into it. But that wasn't all-of that, Esau was sure. And that made him unsure of himself. Did his father suspect Esau was his lost son? His father's early attempts at generosity had been rebuffed, but Esau had sensed early on his father wanted him to have the horse—wanted to give Esau something of value. But then Esau was the only one able to handle the horse—all his years of riding Indian ponies had prepared him to get inside the horse's head and the need for a stallion to prove his dominance. But that was the way men were as well, all trying to beat down others into submission. But the gift of the horse could also be manipulation to compel him to stay—Esau was now indebted to him but that would only be if Esau had a core of decency. Men liked to take chances.

Esau had arrived early. What did Poppy want? Poppy Redding. That was her name when Esau first met her in a shoddy brothel in Tempe.

 _"_ _My name's Poppy," she said. She was wearing just a soiled camisole and knee-length pantalets under an open silk Chinese robe that had picks and slight pulls in the fabric. Sweat rolled between her breasts and her temples were moist. But she was young, slender, leggy and astonishingly beautiful with hair almost as dark as Esau's, her eyes, darker. And she was as young as he was, not one of the older women who wore too much powder caked by sweat and smelled of stale perfume and the exertions of unwashed cowboys._

 _"_ _You ever been here before?"_

 _Esau shook his head. He was working on a ranch helping with branding and castrating calves and now it was Friday. The men had been paid and were headed to town. Abe, the foreman, had taken a liking to the quiet, young man who was always so serious and threw his huge arms about the young man's shoulders. "Come on into town—have a few beers and a woman and it'll make you a new man."_

 _"_ _Maybe not a new man," one of the men said, smiling, "but a man for sure."_

 _"_ _Maybe he prefers a nice heifer, just waitin' for us to leave afore he cuts one out of the herd for himself."_

 _"_ _Yeah, one with pretty eyes."_

 _The men had laughed at the good-natured teasing but Esau heated with anger and embarrassment. Abe slapped him lightly on the back, laughing as well. "C'mon. I'll see you're okay. You'll have a good time." And so Esau went to town with them, listening to their jokes and barbs among themselves._

 _The other men had already found themselves a woman, some drinking at the bar, some with the woman sitting on their laps and some already upstairs, having one arm around a woman and the other holding a bottle of cheap champagne. Esau was left alone and then the young woman came down the stairs and smiled at him._

 _"_ _Buy a bottle," Poppy said. "Give me four bits—you have to buy a bottle even though it's not fit to drink—not even fit to wash your feet with." Esau dug in his pocket and pulled out the coins. Poppy bought the bottle and then led him upstairs._

 _Poppy closed the door to her small room. It had a chipped iron bed, a washstand, one chair and wall pegs on which a man could hang his clothes should he decide to remove any. And above the headboard was an open window that just let in more hot air._

 _"_ _It's cooler later in the evening," she said, slipping off her robe. "What's your name?"_

 _"_ _Esau."_

 _"_ _Esau? I ain't never heard a name like that. It Indian?" Her eyes narrowed._

 _"_ _No, it's from the Bible."_

 _"_ _Well, that explains why I ain't never heard it before. You an Indian? I never been with an Indian but you're wearing Indian boots."_

 _"_ _No, I'm not an Indian."_

 _"_ _You want me to take off my things?" Poppy asked._

 _"_ _Yes." Esau pulled off his shirt, tossing it on the floor._

 _"_ _Indians aren't hairy like you, are they? But it would be a change of pace from being with stinking, sweaty cowhands with fat bellies and stale breath." Poppy stepped out of her pantalets and Esau was awed. He had been with Rosamunde but he had never really seen her, not like this. "Maud, one of the girls, she said that Indians want to take a scalp but not from your head!" Poppy laughed but Esau didn't quite understand. "You know, a scalp? From down here?" Poppy gestured to below her stomach and Esau blushed. "It's just a joke," Poppy said. She took Esau by the hand. She liked the shy young man; it was rare to find a customer as young as he was. They lay on the bed and it groaned under their weight and when she put her arms about him, Esau tentatively kissed her mouth and when she responded, he became more confident, more self-assured and Poppy was delighted._

 _Esau saw Poppy four more times before he moved on to another job in another territory but he never forgot her and the hours they had spent talking. It may have been a ruse to get Esau to pay more money without her having to lie on her back but Esau felt the money well-spent. Poppy Redding was the first person to whom he had revealed his soul and all the evil inside himself—but Poppy also saw the goodness, the vulnerability and the fears of a man who was born from the seed of an abandoned child._

Esau waited at the open door of the line shack as Poppy rode up. She dismounted and dropped the horse's reins and it snuffled and moved a few feet to crop grass alongside Sport. Esau had ridden the horse the distance and realized that he had never really known a horse with such endurance but also one with so much determination to do things his own way. It took patience and resolve but Esau made a great deal of progress in showing the horse who was in charge—the rider.

Poppy smiled. She pulled off her hat and then he noticed that her lower lip was swollen and she had a new bruise on her chin. But the swollen lip didn't prevent her from putting her arms up to his neck and pulling his head down for a kiss. He wrapped his arms about her slim body and pulled her to him, kissing her gently so as not to hurt her but her mouth was demanding and they soon found themselves on the wooden cot, Poppy lying in Esau's arms, their clothes in a pile on the floor.

"Once you were out of sight, how long did it take for your husband to slap you?" He stroked her sleek dark hair.

"Not long. But I knew that he would—I laughed when you beat him at cards. It was worth getting slapped just to see him lose; he hates to lose."

They lay in silence for a moment. "And do you intend to tell my father who I am?"

"I don't want to." She raised her head to look at his face. "But I'm willing to make a deal with you, Adam. Something that will benefit both of us."

No one had called him "Adam" in such a long time that the name fit oddly, like slipping a boot on the wrong foot. It's your boot and your foot but it doesn't fit. All the times Adam had been with Poppy, she had listened, stroking his face, as he told her who he really was, Adam Cartwright, and that one day he was determined to find his father if he was still alive, and, well, he hadn't been certain about how he would exact his revenge but he would get it. Poppy said she understood the need to hurt people who had hurt you and also the concern about how to escape the consequences society required. She understood Adam's pain of abandonment, of being left behind by those he trusted and then not finding anywhere else to fit in the world. Life was cruel and God, well, Poppy had lost faith in him a long time ago. After all, no person, no deity, had cared to shield her from pain, from her father's heavy fist, from having to make her way in the world by selling herself since she was fifteen. And If she could go back and kill her father and get away with it, she would, as well as all those men who had used her and then cheated her.

Poppy kissed Adam's chest, the dark nipples, and then licked her way up his neck. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensations. He found it interesting that when he had been with Rosamunde, he had wanted to please her, to delight her but since then, since he wasn't in love with the women he paid, his own pleasure was his only concern.

"What's this 'deal' you have in mind?" Adam gripped her dark hair, pulling up her head to stop her progress as she was now working her tongue downward, rising on her hands and knees for vantage. He needed to keep his head clear; Poppy was clever and talented.

Poppy sighed, disappointed. She had been anticipating Adam's musky smell and taste but sat up. "Well, I have to say I was surprised to see you at the Ponderosa, especially as a ranch hand and still going by Esau. I knew you were wondering if I was going to give you away." Poppy smiled. "You think you're inscrutable, that your face gives nothing away like those wooden Indians outside cigar stores, but like a bad poker player, you have your 'tell'. Another man wouldn't notice but a woman, we do. It's that way you have of being…alert. It's as if all your senses are heightened. You're the same way when you see an attractive woman, aren't you, Adam? Aren't you?" Poppy leaned forward to kiss him, closed her eyes, ready to taste his mouth but he grasped her forearms and held her back. "Adam…."

"Get to the point." He sat up and swung his bare legs over the side of the cot. "What's your proposition?"

"No more pillow talk, my love?" She reached over and toyed with his hair. Adam pushed off her hand and picked his trousers off the floor, slipping them on.

"I don't have time for this. Thanks for the free lay but I have work to do. Or are you going to send me a bill?"

"Fine—be nasty. I know things about you—remember? But simply put, you want your father dead and I want my husband dead? We can help each other get our hearts' desires and get away with it. If we manage to give one another alibis…"

Adam stood unblinking, mute. And then he remembered what Poppy had said about his "tell." She knew she had him at a disadvantage.

"First," Adam said, kneeling down before her and admiring her neck and shoulders and firm breasts. Poppy still had no qualms about sitting exposed. But then he considered, it may be a tactic. "I don't know that I want my father dead."

"If you don't, you're not the same man I met years ago. I'm assuming you want the Ponderosa, don't you? I would imagine when you found out your dear daddy's the wealthiest man within hundreds of miles, that you'd think about your share. As the oldest, you should get everything, that is when he dies, and you and I can speed that up. And what better time than when everyone else is gone."

"I have two half-brothers who would inherit. You suggesting I kill them too?" Adam closely watched her.

"That would be up to you. But, Adam, you were robbed of your birthright. You told me about the Indians, about how your father never looked for you or anything. Don't you still hate him?"

"I don't know, Poppy. Things have changed."

"Well they haven't for me. I want Frank dead! I want him to be hurt as much as he's hurt me all this time!"

Adam stood up. "Then leave him. I'll give you stage fare and then some. I don't need much money."

"No! You don't understand. Frank found me in a small town, in a shit-hole of a place where I was working and he wanted to marry me. Don't look like that, Adam, like I'm lying. It's true. I was walking down the street and he came stepping out of a building and I bumped into him and we started talking. He took me to his hotel room and asked me to marry him; his first wife had died only a year earlier and he was lonely. He told me that he was rich and that I would have everything I had ever wanted and be a lady. So I did—I married him and learned to speak properly. I was young and foolish—I didn't know that he had bought me just like all those other men had, like you had, except that he had bought me for not just one night but all of them—all the nights for the rest of my life."

With his shirt now buttoned but not yet tucked in, Adam sat beside Poppy on the cot. "I told you—pack your things and leave him. I'll help you." He took her hand.

She turned her face to Adam, tears glistening in her eyes. "I can't. he'll send Matt to find me, his foreman, and he'll drag me back just like once before when I tried to leave. And then, while Frank watched, Matt beat me and hurt me in ways people can't see. Frank's mean and sadistic but he didn't want me killed, to have me die from an injured part inside, just hurt—hurt so bad I'd never think of running away again."

Adam sighed. He hadn't realized Poppy's situation. Husbands often struck their wives—it wasn't that unusual and men had the right to discipline their wives but from what Poppy had said about Frank, it was worse than what the law would allow.

"Go to the sheriff. Tell him about Frank beating you. There are laws against that, I'm sure. There have to be."

Poppy scoffed. "Do you really think things are that simplistic? I never took you for stupid, Adam"

"Look, you hate Frank and want him dead but then what? Do you think you're just going to sit back on a pile of money and not have to answer for it? Remember, only God can resurrect someone and that's a desperate step—murder. Once a man's dead, he's dead forever."

"That's what I'm counting on," Poppy said.

"And if I remember, wasn't a son mentioned that day in town?" Poppy's face changed and Adam knew. "You little fool," he told her, "you slept with his son, didn't you? That's why you want Frank dead. The son inherits half the money and you see the two of you living happily ever after. Who's the stupid one, Poppy? He'd get the money, find a way to get your half, and toss you out on your shapely ass."

Poppy turned in him. "Anders loves me—he does. He sees to the welfare of our son, that he's taken care of…"

"Oh, this just gets better and better." Adam shook his head in amazement and reached for his boots, pulling them on, and standing up.

"I need your help, Adam! Frank won't let me have my son with me even though…I mean he is Frank's grandson but…I want my child. I haven't seen him since he was born. Please, Adam! Help me. I'll help you kill your father if you'll help me kill Frank! We can do it!"

"No, Poppy. Not interested." Adam put on his hat and Poppy stood, tossing the blanket aside.

She placed her hands on his chest and pressed herself against him. "Just think, Adam. With your father dead, you'll have the Ponderosa and everything that goes with it. If you don't know inheritance rights, well, the oldest son still gets everything and then he decides who gets part of it. You wouldn't have to give any of it to your half-brothers. You could even sell everything and be so rich you'd never have to lift a finger to do any work again. And then…there's me." Poppy raised herself on her toes and put up her hands but Adam gently grabbed her wrists.

"No, Poppy." He dropped her hands and headed to the door. Poppy called to him and he turned.

"You won't tell anyone about our…talk." It wasn't a question. Poppy understood the benefit of their complicit silence.

"No, I won't. But if your husband dies, well, depending on how he dies, I can't promise you anything. Divorce the man and marry his son if you're so certain he loves you. Even if you don't have money, you'll have love."

"Yes," Poppy practically spat out. "And you and I both know how much that's worth!"

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

**This is a short chapter since I haven't had much time to write-but if you are reading, please persevere as I am winding it down and homing in on the ending-honestly!**

 **Seventeen**

Esau rode along the perimeter of the Ponderosa checking line—he had merely combined business with a little pleasure. It would soon be noon, the sun almost overhead and looking in the distance he saw a patch of blue through the trees; it looked as if the cloudless sky had fallen to the ground. He stopped his horse who resisted, tossing its head about, trying to take the bit but Esau easily managed him, pulling the animal's head in tight.

A few years ago, Esau admitted, he would've plotted with Poppy, and gladly accepted her proposition of murder. Life with the Osage had been simple with simple rules. The basic needs of life were water, food and shelter from the elements. If a person had those, then anything else was superfluous. If a man had a woman, he had nights of pleasure and release. If a woman had a man and children, she had status and the fulfillment of her heart. Enemies were dispatched with no emotion but a sense of superiority, of power. But things weren't so easy anymore. Esau didn't know what had happened to him, how he had changed. Or why. He was no longer the passionate young man he had been, no longer driven by a hunger for vengeance—he had begun to consider things logically and decided that he preferred it. Intense emotions drove a man the same way madness did.

While Esau was with the Wazhazhe, a white man had been dragged into the camp. After the young braves who had not yet known battle formed a circle holding spears, the white man was stripped and released to its center. Tóa had watched, wishing he was allowed to prove his prowess as well but he was merely a captive himself. The white man had looked about, panicking, wondering what he was could do. He seemed to think he could break through the circle by attacking the smallest and weakest brave but every time he tried to crash through, he was poked with a spear. The young braves toyed with him for hours, poking at him repeatedly and blood began to run from his many wounds, the circle slowly closed and the man became more wide-eyed, more desperate until with an animal sound, he rushed one of the braves, grabbed the spear and thrust it through himself, pulling himself up close to the young brave who was equally wide-eyed with surprise—and horror. The captive, foamy blood bubbling at his lips, spat at the young warrior and then slumped and he and the spear dropped to the dirt. Tóa knew then what desperation, fear and hopelessness did—a man ran toward death then. And suddenly, Esau felt his life was worth living and to live in peace with others and himself was paramount.

"C'mon, boy," Esau said and kicked his horse forward to the blue water which expanded in view. He paused at the top of a drop, an uneven declination to boulders and rocks and the edge of the lake that lay before him in an endless span. Small waves lapped at the shore and the sunlight sparkled and glittered on the water.

Esau dismounted and dropped the horse's reins. It tossed its head and started away but then decided that the lush grass was appealing and went to cropping. Esau carefully made his way down the embankment and to the boulders, He looked again at the water and stripped himself of the new clothes, the starched red shirt and brown leather vest, the stiff dungarees and the heavy black boots. He waded into the water, acclimating himself to the cold. Then, when he was deep enough, he dove into the water, submerging himself and propelling himself forward, feeling the water welcome him to its depths.

Esau broke to the surface, flicking his hair back, the water drops glimmering like diamonds, and looked about as he moved his arms and feet to stay afloat. He was the only living thing except for birds flying overhead and the fish beneath. He pushed himself backwards, raising his feet and floated in the water, his arms out, hearing the sound of the water in his ears. The sensation of being held-up, supported by a power greater than himself was intoxicating. All his life he had struggled and now for the first time in his tortured memories, he could give himself over and truly be at ease. And the words he had heard at the many Baptisms he had attended in Pastor Obermeyer's church came back to him.

"After me cometh a man…for he was before me and I knew him not." John the Baptist's words now took on a personal meaning. Esau knew he had been Adam before he was Tóa, before he was Wasape Sabe and then Esau, but he had no idea who Adam Cartwright was—he knew him not-but he wanted to find out.

He floated a bit longer and then he dove again beneath the surface and swam back to the shore. He rose up when the water became shallow enough, and the water slid from his body as he walked toward shore. He spoke aloud in the manner he had heard so many times, "God hath raised him from the dead." And Adam felt reborn.

~ 0 ~

It was a little past noon when Adam rode into the yard. He dismounted and Sport dipped his head to the trough, but before Adam could unsaddle the animal, Hop Sing came out from the kitchen.

"Why you late? Lunch at noon! Food on table now half hour already. You come eat now!"

Adam barely concealed his amusement; the small man in the blue cap was a force to be reckoned with but Adam also knew that what might seem like abuse to an outsider was only the small man's way of showing his concern and worry—and possibly, affection. Over the days Adam had been there, the two men had stuck up a pattern. Every afternoon, Adam had lunch in the kitchen while Hop Sing went about preparing for the evening meal. It was Hop Sing's routine to start the day by cooking and serving breakfast which Adam ate in the small kitchen. And while he ate, Hop Sing made the day's bread and talked. It was through this manner that after a week had passed, Adam had learned how Hop Sing came to be with the family and about Hoss and Joe and the type of people they were. But most of all, Adam was impressed by the deep-rooted respect and love Hop Sing had for Ben Cartwright. And, making Adam wonder if Hop Sing suspected his true identity, Adam listened to the Chinese views on sons respecting and revering their fathers. So Adam often sipped slowly at his coffee to extend the time in the fragrant kitchen and listened to the tales.

After being on the Ponderosa for a week and a half, Adam, who still answered to Esau, brought up Ben Cartwright's wives. He had never asked a question of Hop Sing before, just listened.

"Why you ask that?" Hop Sing narrowed his eyes. He had been thinly slicing carrots after scrubbing them skinless but stopped.

"Because Hoss had shown me the three pictures of the women and started to explain but never finished. I just always wondered. Three wives, two sons—I wondered if his first wife had died childless."

Hop Sing turned back to his carrots. He was silent and then he spoke carefully. "Mistah Cartwright, him not like talk about first Mrs. Cartwright and son."

"A son? He had another son?" Adam's heart thudded. So his father had mentioned him after all.

Hop Sing paused slicing again and looked off, unfocused. "One night, Hoss very young, teeth come in, and fussy all night. I walk child about. Mistah Ben, he come out and say he take the boy for a while. I sit and Mistah Ben walk Hoss up and down, up and down. Him tell me about Hoss' mother, how she killed by Indians and then—him say, very sad, that when sun rise, it birthday of son lost on way west. I still remember day-May 18. Son's name—Adam, like man in Bible. Say Adam's mother name him—first wife. Her name…"

"Elizabeth," Adam said in a rough voice.

Hop Sing glanced at Adam and then continued. "Him start to weep with remember and Hop Sing take Hoss back. Mistah Ben, him sit and weep like child. Say never forgive self for not looking more, for not finding son. I say that boy probably eaten by beast but him say that he should've lay down and die as well—not have son, not live. But I say he have son number two, need to live for him. Hoss need father too. But in mind, Ben Cartwright always know Hoss number two son, Joe, son number three; ghost of number one son always haunt Mistah Ben and him not ever find rest for mind. No peace."

The kitchen remained silent then and Hop Sing seemed to revive as from a trance and went back to his work and Adam finished his glass of buttermilk and taking his dishes, put them in the sink and walked out to do his afternoon chores. Hop Sing moved to the Dutch door, the top open, and watched Adam walk away. He considered the man's age, his walk, his eyes and wondered if number one son had returned; it wouldn't surprise him. After all, ever since Ben Cartwright had first told him of his lost boy, Hop Sing would light a stick of incense to Kwan Yin, the goddess of mercy, every May 18th and pray for peace for the boy's soul and for Ben Cartwright. But it occurred to Hop Sing many times that number one son might not be dead—and now he doubted it even more. Kwan Yin, in her endless compassion, worked her mercy when it was most appreciated and most needed. When better than when a man entered the last part of his years.

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

**Eighteen**

Adam was restless. In the past, when he felt this way, he would take off in search of new surroundings. And during the time he had traveled with Jed and Mose, there had always been conversation—mostly between the two other men- to fill the emptiness and although he didn't often participate, it was company. Adam had always considered himself fine without others but now he felt a longing to belong somewhere and to take part in society.

He picked up the dirty deck of cards he had found in the barn and considered playing another hand of solitaire, something he often did to pass the time. But usually the orange tabby would jump soundlessly onto the table and lie down on the card spread.

"You're as bad as a woman—always demanding attention," Adam had once said as he reached out to rub behind it's ears. The cat had turned his head to give Adam better access, its eyes closed in pleasure. But the cat wasn't there and Adam considered it must be off hunting.

A book. Adam decided that he would like to read a book and wished again he had bought a few when he had last been in town. And then he remembered the bookcases filled with books behind and beside his father's desk. He hesitated and then, tossing the deck on the small table, he went out into the yard. He guessed it was about 8:00. The ranch house windows were still glowing; Ben Cartwright was downstairs. Adam blew out his lips and walked across the expanse and to the house.

The knocker sounded and Ben was startled. Hop Sing had retired over an hour ago so Ben put down his brandy and pipe and sliding his gun out of its holster rolled up on the low table by the door, he unbolted the heavy door and cautiously opened it.

"Esau, I'm glad it's you. Anything wrong?"

"I hate to bother you this late but, well, I was wondering if I could borrow a book."

"To read?"

"No—the table wobbles so I'll need a thin one."

It took a few moments for Ben to realize it was sarcasm. "Oh, I didn't mean to sound as if…"

"I can read. But if you'd rather not loan a book, that's fine. I'll say goodnight."

"No, no. Please, I didn't mean…I'm sorry to seem as if I…" Ben felt awkward and clumsy. He knew he was going by the assumption that a ranch hand must be interested in only drinking and whoring in his spare time. But Esau was different and he knew it. "Come in, please." Ben stepped aside and Adam walked in.

Again, Adam felt the warmth of the room, how it seemed to recognize him and call his name and he couldn't help but glance at his mother's picture again.

Ben had noticed the target of Esau's gaze and felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He told himself that Esau was only appraising the value of the gold frames; he wouldn't be the first guest to do so.

"Here." Ben walked behind the desk. In this cabinet are a set of books I bought ages ago—shipped them from New York—Shakespeare's plays—Dante-Swift—The Tales of the Arabian Nights. These are books containing statutes and contract law. Back here," Ben stepped closer to the shelves behind the desk where books of varied sizes and shapes were lined up, some on their sides, some standing upright. "These are just, well, there's some poetry, some novels, some autobiographies." Ben pulled out a book with an embossed cover. "This is one by Defoe, "Moll Flanders. It's a bit racy—I have to make sure my son, Joe doesn't read it, but you may enjoy it. And here's another one by Defoe, about a man who's shipwrecked on an unpopulated island. I enjoy him—Defoe writes in a way that makes you feel you're there. But choose what you like."

"I'll take the two by Defoe." Adam took the two books from Ben. "Thank you. Goodnight."

Ben stepped after Adam. "I was wondering; I'm having a brandy. Won't you join me?" He waited and was relieved when Adam accepted. "Here. Sit here." Again Ben waved to a blue chair that sat across from where he had been sitting, the fireplace between them. Adam did. Waiting. Ben quickly opened the liquor cabinet and poured another brandy, handing it to the ranch hand. And then he sat and took up his glass.

"I'm glad for the company. Hop Sing goes up early and I guess I miss the company of my sons. I'm getting to be an old man and set in my ways and this is the first time both Hoss and Joseph have been gone at the same time. The house is just too empty." Ben noticed how Esau sipped the brandy, savoring the taste; he didn't slug it down the way an uneducated man would but Ben knew from what Hoss had told him and from the things Esau had said, that he had never been to a school, never had any formal education and had spent years with the Osage Indians. But something about the young man tugged at his heart, at his soul.

So," Ben said, "why don't you tell me about yourself?"

~ 0 ~

There was a small window above Adam's cot in the tack room and the full moon shone through and made dark visible. Adam lay on his back staring at the pine ceiling, the top blanket loosely over him, his hands folded behind his head and went over and over his time spent alone with his father. He wondered why, after all his time spent thinking about his own pain and hate for his father, he found he couldn't torment the man, confess who he really was and then reject any effort at reconciliation. A few years ago, that would have been enough-to bring the man to his knees and hear him beg for forgiveness and to grant none. And then walk out and leave his father crushed knowing he had lost his son forever. Examining his own soul made Adam uncomfortable but he was driven to find out what kind of man he really was.

He had closely watched the older man's face as he related that he had been stolen away by Indians as his family traveled across the Midwest. His family didn't come looking for him, he had said. Adam wanted to say that his father had punished him, whipped him and that he had wanted to worry his father a bit, cause him to realize how precious his son was to him but his plan had failed except for one thing—he found that he wasn't as valued as he had believed. But he didn't say all that. It was something a spiteful child would say.

The grey-haired man had stopped drinking his brandy and listened as he told of living with an older Osage woman, a widow, and that he became her son. Then he related his killing the Spirit Bear and earning status with the Osage and a name, an actual name, Wasape Sabe—Black Bear. Adam briefly described the slaughter of the Indian tribe at the hands of the trappers. But he didn't talk about his time with the trappers or about Mosane just as when he told about living with the Obermeyers, he didn't mention Rosamunde; his love for them was too private to share. The two women were too close to his heart and speaking their names would cause him too much pain.

"So that's why I have no last name. Mrs. Obermeyer had once mentioned adopting me and making me their legal son but I'm sure if she ever mentioned it to the pastor he probably said no." Adam was tempted to say, "He'd rather adopt Satan himself than have me as his son." Instead, Adam said that he was too old to be adopted and instead, decided to strike out of his own. Adam had then stood, not caring to talk any longer, taken up his chosen books and told his father goodnight. And although Adam expected to be pleased by the haunted and painful look in Ben Cartwright's face, at the dark circles under the man's eyes, at the fact that his snifter of brandy had remained untouched and his pipe had burned itself out while he had sat, not moving, barely breathing as he listened to Adam's story, he wasn't. It took all Adam's self-control to refrain from pulling the man to him and telling him that he was Adam—the lost son, and that he was alive and he forgave his father for leaving him behind. But he hadn't done that either.

As Adam lay in the darkness, waiting for sleep, the barn door opened. Adam held his breath. The horses moved in their stalls and one nickered lowly. Light footfalls moved toward the tack room. Adam pulled out the knife he kept hidden between the mattress and the wooden frame. A holstered six-shooter lay on the floor beside the bed but he preferred the knife. It made no noise as it silently cut through the air, hitting its target with a satisfactory thud. He lay still, waiting. And then someone came into the open, narrow doorway and stopped. Adam gripped the knife handle, ready to spring up and throw but the voice stopped him.

"Adam? It's me—Poppy."

~ 0 ~

Poppy lay with her head on Adam's chest, her arms about him. The warmth of her face against ADam filling him with an uneasy peace.

"Poppy," he said, running one hand across her back, "this has to stop. The next time you show up, I'll turn you away, as hard as that'll be. I don't understand what you want from me, why you came over here, especially after the last time and what I told you."

Adam felt her lips hot against his skin as she kissed his chest and then ran her mouth up his neck. Adam reluctantly sat up; she reminded him of the orange tabby. Many times the cat would come and make itself at home on his abdomen as he slept. The sudden weight would wake him but the cat was so content he found himself careful not to disturb it. Poppy didn't take well to being disturbed either.

"All I want from you is to be close to someone. You don't understand how lonely I am—how desperate for any type of love I am."

"Poppy, I don't love you—I never said I did and you don't love me. We're just using each other."

"What does that matter as long as we're each getting what we want? You've changed from when I first met you—become a bit more of a hypocrite, haven't you, Adam?"

Poppy's accusation gave Adam pause. Had he turned into a hypocrite, the characteristic he most despised in others, the main flaw he found in the white race? The Osage never deceived—they were always open and honest. And now… Adam considered. Poppy was beautiful with her large, dark eyes edged with sooty lashes and a full, lush mouth. Her body was white and rose and full and ripe and she welcomed him with her round arms. To lie with her after the tense evening was a release that Adam had needed. And yet she was a married woman. Were bonds the white men formed all built on such shaky ground? Was that why his father had left him so many years ago, the bond between parent and child as tenuous, and thin as marriage vows?

The woman had stroked his self-image—made him feel wanted and desired and it was so easy to take her and enjoy the soft warmth of her flesh. And her husband was cruel and Adam was certain by the bruises on her face and arms that she suffered at his hands. But he knew Poppy was crafty, as crafty as he was—they had both survived all those years by their wits and using what they had.

"Leave him, Poppy. Leave your husband. I'll help you like I said."

"If you'll just help me in the way I want, Adam…"

"I am helping you. I'm giving you good advice. Leave the son of a bitch. You managed before him and you can do it again."

"I'm tired, Adam. It won't be long, just a few years and I won't be… I'm getting old. What will I do by myself, all alone. I need you to help me. I have an idea about how we can kill Frank and keep both of us out of it. And I'll help you kill your father."

"Poppy, don't tell me about your plan and don't include me."

"You coward. I was going to… Never mind." She rose and began to dress.

Adam also stood and pulled on a pair of trousers. "Where's your horse?"

"Behind the barn." Poppy quickly buttoned up the front of her dress. She sat on the cot to put on her shoes.

"I'll go bring him around." Adam left, the ground rough under his bare feet. He found the small horse tied behind the barn and speaking soothingly to the animal, led it to the front where Poppy stood, waiting. Her face was stiff, emotionless.

"So you won't help me?"

"Poppy, get a lawyer and do all this legally. I'll help you in any way I can except what you have in mind." She didn't respond so Adam just helped her on her horse. But before she left, Poppy turned to look at him once more.

"I like you, Adam. I always have. You're good and decent considering all that's happened to you and we're quite a bit alike. We even resemble one another in a manner—dark hair, dark eyes—and you are beautiful. It's almost a bit incestuous, isn't it?" She smiled wanly. "But I have to save myself no matter what. We have that in common too—an instinct to survive. Goodbye, Adam. Maybe one day you'll be able to forgive me." She kicked her horse and headed back to the Rocking M.

Adam stood puzzled by her words. But then women were always incomprehensible, their minds working in ways he would never understand.

~ 0 ~

Adam was dreaming of a woman with dark hair. She cried and mourned a loss. He wanted to ease her mind, wanted to hold her dark head against him and whisper comforting words. But as he approached her, he saw it was his mother but she didn't look like his mother in the picture he had seen—she looked like Poppy. She smiled at him and then rose and dropped her shawl and stood bare before him. And in his dream, Adam wanted her but if the beautiful woman was his mother, it was a sin—incest. And then Pastor Obermeyer appeared behind her and pointed his finger, beginning to chastise him, "Adam, wake up from sin—wake up from death."

It took a few moments but Adam suddenly jerked awake, a heavy hand on his shoulder. The first light of day was streaming in the small window behind him and before him in the small room was Sheriff Coffee leaning over him, shaking him awake, and his father standing behind him wearing a robe.

"Mornin', son. Sorry to wake you but I need to take you into town."

"For what?" Adam rolled one shoulder t, rubbing it to ease the stiffness.

"I need to ask you about the murder of Frank McClure."

"Frank McClure? Oh, hell…" Adam rubbed his face and then ran his hands through his hair. "He's dead, huh?"

"Yeah, he's dead."

"Well, I didn't kill Frank McClure."

"I didn't say you did. I just need to ask you a few questions."

"Ask me here. My answers will be same if I'm in your office."

Roy turned and looked at Ben. It was then that Adam noticed his father's face; he looked as if his world had collapsed.

"I need to ask you about something else that Mrs. McClure said you told her."

"Roy, let me. If it's true…" Ben said, his voice deep with emotion.

"Ben, after all these years, what are the chances? More'n likely, it's a fIim-flam. I need to do my duty first and after that, well…you can talk to him. But I have a murder here and a damn ugly one at that. I have to take him in." Ben turned his attention to Adam. "Now you can go peacefully or not but I'm going to take you in."

Adam looked back and forth between the two men. His father was upset, his hands working in and out of fists. Adam sighed and Poppy's departing words suddenly made sense. He slowly rose from the cot, pulled on his trousers and the new, clean, red work shirt and slipped on his boots. He placed the black Stetson on his head and began to reach down for his holster; it had already become a part of him, much to his surprise.

"Leave the gun," Roy said. "Let's go."

Adam stopped, suddenly suspicious, suddenly alert. "What's the other thing you want to ask me about?"

Roy started to answer, but Ben, his composure finally collapsing, blurted out, "Are you…? Mrs. McClure said that you…that you're Adam, my boy. Is it true?" Ben made an obvious effort to keep himself together, to prevent reaching out to the young man who evoked such strong emotions in him. And he told himself he should have seen it, should have noticed the eyes—so much like his mother's, Elizabeth.

"Ben," Roy said, turning to his old friend. 'We'll get it straightened out. Just…" Roy put his hand solidly on Ben's shoulder. "Let me do what I need to do first. If he's a grifter, it'll come out. And if he's….well, we'll find that out too."

It was as if Adam was back in Lake Tahoe, swimming under the water's surface—moving but not really knowing the direction. His blood thrummed in his ears, the voices and sounds around him muted, the light dim. And whether he could break through to the surface again, break into the light and to whom he really was, Adam wasn't sure.

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

**First, if you read the previous chapter before July 5, then you read it before I realized I had left out a section; I have now added it and the transition is smoother, IMO. Also, as I was writing and reworking this section, I realized that the choice Ben had to make so many years ago is similar to the one in Styron's great novel _Sophie's Choice_. I only wish mine was as well written. Anyway, this was a difficult chapter to write as I strove to make it as realistic as possible, a reunion between a father and son who haven't seen each other in over twenty years. Thank you for reading and we're close to the end. Promise. **

**Nineteen**

"Don't say anything," Hiram Wood told Adam who sat in a straight-back chair in the sheriff's office, his hands cuffed at the wrist.

"Now, Hiram," Roy Coffee said, standing up, "how am I going to find out if he's the one who did it if I don't hear his side. Besides, he's already admitted the knife, the murder weapon, is his. Just denies he did it—claims someone—maybe Mrs. McClure, maybe not-stole his knife and tried to frame him."

Ben Cartwright had followed Hiram Wood, his lawyer, into the sheriff's office. When Ben arrived in town after quickly dressing and brushing off Hop Sing's questions about "Why you leave so early? Why not eat?" he had headed straight to Hiram Wood's home and practically dragged the lawyer from his breakfast table to Roy's office. Now Ben stood in the background, watching and waiting for his chance to talk to Esau alone, to find out if he was actually Adam Cartwright as Poppy McClure had stated.

"What knife?" Hiram asked. Ben had tried to fill the lawyer in on what details with what little he knew.

"This one." Roy held up a knife with dried blood on the wicked-looking blade. "It appears to be Frank McClure's blood. Found beside his body on the bed."

When Roy had first held up the weapon and asked, "Is this your knife?" Adam couldn't help but smile. It was his knife, the one he kept hidden in his cot, the one with the carved handle that he had been seen with many times-one he couldn't deny owning "That clever, little bitch," he had said, barely audible. "Let me guess; Frank McClure had his throat slit by my knife while he slept in his bed, didn't he?"

"Seems you know quite a bit about the murder," Roy said, watching the young man, trying to determine for himself if this handsome young man was really Ben Cartwright's lost son. He had seen similarities earlier and found that he felt an affection for the young man—there was something about him Roy liked. But he had a job to do; someone in his jurisdiction had been murdered and he was determined to carry out justice—Cartwright involvement or not.

"Not about the murder," Adam said, "about the person who did it. It wasn't me, Sheriff. I didn't kill Frank McClure."

"Okay. You deny it. I acknowledge that. But can you explain how your knife came to be used to kill the man?"

"Someone took it and used it to make it look like I did it. It doesn't take a lot of smarts to figure that out."

"And it doesn't take a lot of smarts to lie either."

Adam chuckled. "Did Mrs. McClure say I killed her husband for love of her?"

"No, not at all. Mrs. McClure says you couldn't have killed Frank." Roy was uncomfortable; he hated messy situations like this one. This case, if it ever went to trial would make the headlines even in San Francisco. Frank McClure was a well-known man, a wealthy man with a beautiful, young wife with salacious secrets—at least according to her and what she had revealed about Adam Cartwright. Frank's murder and the scandal involved would bring all the outside reporters to Virginia City to cover the trial and just the thought made Roy weary.

"Oh, that's surprising? And just what does she say?"

Roy cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "She says that you and she are lovers—that she knows you from years ago and that the two of you started up again. But she also claims it couldn't be you—or her-who killed Frank because she was with you at the time in your room, found Frank dead when she came home in the early hours." Roy shifted in his chair. It was on casters and he rolled back a bit. He leaned forward, his hands together as if in prayer. "Well? She telling the truth?"

"Yes. But I can only confirm some of it. First, I wouldn't describe us as lovers and I'm surprised Poppy does; she's not a romantic by nature. We just enjoyed each other last night. And yes, she was with me for a few hours. And she's also right that I didn't kill Frank. As for my knife, the only connection between it and Frank is Poppy. I don't know if she killed Frank or not—I would think a knife to his throat would awaken any man but Poppy is a cold one when she needs to be but…I can't speculate and I don't know. I've found that women are capable of anything a man can do—including murder, I guess."

It was then that Hiram Wood and Ben Cartwright burst in the sheriff's office and advised Adam not to say anything else. And then Hiram turned his attentions to Roy.

"Are you keeping the murder scene clear? I want to see it just as it was."

"Now, Hiram, I know my job as well as, if not better than you know yours. Soon as the McClure's foreman, Matt Abrams, rode into town and told me about the murder, I deputized Merle Buchanan and that young kid, Clem Foster, and they've been guarding the place letting no one in ever since. No one has been in the house; they haven't even been in the house themselves as per my orders. The only others who have been inside besides me, are Matt Abrams, Mrs. McClure, Doc Martin and the undertaker. Mrs. McClure's staying at the Imperial House now and I sent Mrs. Dorsey to see to anything she needs. And I watched while she gathered her things at the house, making sure she took no valuable evidence with her. So that's it, all who've been inside." Roy paused. "Oh, and the murderer."

Hiram sniffed; Roy tried his patience to no end. "Can I talk to my client alone?" Hiram asked.

"I suppose so. That's his right. C'mon, son." Roy stood up helping Adam up as well. But before Adam left for his cell, he looked into his father's dark eyes, the man's question still unanswered, and then Adam, Hiram Wood and Roy Coffee walked into the back where Adam was released from his handcuffs and placed in one of the small but clean cells to talk with his lawyer.

~ 0 ~

For the first time, Ben Cartwright and Roy Coffee shared an uncomfortable silence. Since Roy hadn't yet broached the question of Esau's true identity, never corroborated what Mrs. McClure had revealed about him, Ben had nothing to say, too lost in his own thoughts to consider conversation. So Roy feigned paperwork until Hiram Wood finally called to be released from the cell.

Ben stood and waited until Roy and Hiram walked out into the office proper.

"Well?" Ben asked expectantly. "Is he or isn't he?"

"I don't think he's guilty at all," Hiram said as he headed to the door.

"Not that, you damn fool!" Ben said, raising his voice. "Is he my son, Adam, or isn't he?"

Hiram did not take well to be being called a fool even if Ben's insult had been uttered in duress. "If you think I'm such a fool, then you'll want to hire another lawyer."

"No, I'm…I'm sorry, Hiram. I'm glad you don't think Esau's guilty; I don't either. And I apologize for my…temper."

Hiram sighed. An apology was all he wanted. "Of course. I need to get back to my office and dictate some notes to my clerk before arraignment; the circuit judge will be by in two days. And then I have to visit the murder scene. If you'll excuse me? Ben? Roy?" Hiram nodded to the sheriff and Roy gave a curt wave. Then Hiram left.

"Can I talk to him?" Ben asked. "I need to know some things."

"I s'pose," Roy said, picking up his key ring again. "Just leave your gun on my desk."

Roy led Ben to the back room with the cells and Adam rose to his feet, waiting while Roy unlocked the cell and Ben Cartwright entered. "Just call me when you're done," Roy said as the tumbler turned, locking the barred door.

Ben wanted to sit on the cot alongside his son who sat back down, his hands clasped before him, eyes cast down, but he sat instead on a stool in the corner.

Adam was the first to speak. "I should have told you who is was at the start but…." He pursed his lips. "I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted to…"

"Kill me?" Ben offered.

"Not really, at least not anymore. But I wanted to…I don't know what I wanted. That was the problem." Adam looked up then and met the eyes of the man he had hated for so long. But he realized then that he had never really hated his father—never. But his emotions were all entwined with each other, love, adoration, disappointment and fear and that he blamed his father for all of it. As a child, as a boy, he couldn't possibly understand that his father might have been put in a situation where he couldn't make any decision without pain, whether it was to remain behind to search longer or to go on. But now, as a man, he could appreciate the torment that his father endured, not just for his crucial decision but for all the intervening years when he relived the consequences he knew and the consequences he didn't. How does anyone ever know if their decision was the best even if it has disastrous consequences? A man always wonders, "What if?" and Adam knew it. He had also been questioning himself lately—many "what ifs" and determining his own culpability in his fate. He came to the conclusion that a man is responsible for what he does and he had to accept the burden of his own actions. And now he could try and shift some of his father's burden to his own shoulders, even if he bowed under the weight.

"Adam…I…you have no idea…" Ben rose from the stool.

"Please." Adam wasn't ready for it, for his father's bare emotions—it was all too much. "Sit down. I have to explain some things but first, aren't you even concerned about me being an imposter? Why are you so willing to accept my word that I'm your son, that I'm Adam Cartwright?"

Ben sat back down on the stool but leaned forward. His heart was thudding in his chest, welling with unexpressed love. "Because I knew from the moment I met you that there was something familiar. I tried to figure out who you reminded me of over and over. I would stay awake at night trying to figure it out but you know how it is when you're trying to remember someone's name? You know, it's there in your memory, just peeking out of the darkness but you're unable to grasp it. That's how it was with you. There was something about your eyes, the way you looked at me and then, well, Hop Sing raised the question one time, said maybe you were my lost 'number one son'" Ben and Adam smiled at the idea of the bandy-legged Chinese man and his insight. "I should have known who you were. Oh, Adam…I'm so sorry…I regret having left you behind. Had I known…" Ben covered his mouth with his hands, muting the sob that welled up inside him.

"Ask me a question," Adam demanded. "Ask me something only I would know. I need to prove to you who I am even if you don't need it. I need it."

"All right." Ben thought. Hoss may have told Adam many things already and there was the conversation about the daguerreotypes. Then Ben knew. "Okay. I have a question. Why did your mother name you Adam?" Ben waited. Perhaps the beautiful young man before him, the man he would be proud to have as a son, was an imposter. It was possible, Ben knew that, and he wasn't sure he could bear it if the man before him wasn't Adam.

"My mother named me Adam because her favorite book was 'Paradise Lost'. You had told me that when I was a boy and I never forgot—it was such an odd name for a book, but I remember being determined to read it when I grew up. And you also showed me my mother's china music box and said that she thought I looked like one the cherubs on the lid."

Ben felt a rush of emotions. Adam sat here in the jail cell, his son, his eldest son and no words would come as there were no words—none.

Adam was also at a loss; he didn't know what he should say or do. How should he address the man sitting across from him? "Father…" Ben looked up eagerly at the word. And then Adam remembered hearing Hoss and Joe. "Pa…." The word echoed though his memory. Everything Adam had used to comfort himself those miserable nights, the back-breaking days, the time he was with the trappers and then with the Obermeyers and the years he traveled by himself, no friends, no family, finding himself alone—all those times he found the thought of finding his father and extracting revenge of some type comforting were all wrapped up in that word. And now he had his father at his mercy and yet all his hate melted away. Adam wanted to ease his father's suffering in some way. So he lied.

"Pa, my life hasn't been bad—I've been happy most of it."

Ben looked up, swallowing hard. "Oh, Adam. I'm so glad that…all these years, I've wondered, thought about you and hated myself. You have to understand-I had to make a choice between staying behind longer and searching for you and risk the snows and losing both Inger and Hoss. I prayed before I made my final decision. I waited for something but nothing came to guide me. And then an icy-cold breeze blew through and I knew I had to move on. It was one child or another—the worst choice I've had to make in my life. But to find that you've been happy is…oh, my son." Ben stood and Adam rose as well. They were basically strangers but Ben tentatively reached out and Adam moved toward his father. They gingerly put their arms about one another and then Ben held Adam closer; his son had been happy and that cut his grief in half. And he had his son with him again and that wiped away the other half.

Politely disentangling himself, Adam backed off a few steps. "I want to thank you for hiring a lawyer for me and you need to know, I didn't kill Frank McClure."

"I never thought you did."

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

**I have read all the comments and more than one of you has said that you want to see Hoss and Joe and their meeting with their older/oldest brother. I am sorry to disappoint you but this story didn't turn out as I had originally planned (I even changed the summary) and instead, acquired a different pattern and shape; as Ben and Adam were at the beginning—father and one son, so they ended up at the end—just the two of them with Hoss and Joe still on the cattle drive.**

 **If I wrote more about the introduction of Adam to his brothers in this story, it would take another tact and probably go on for another 10-20,0000 words and would lose its focus. So I ended it where I did—a father and son reunion (to paraphrase Paul Simon.)**

 **Due to your comments, I have been thinking about a sequel that could possibly be written from 15-year-old Joe's POV as he is the one who would have the most difficult time dealing with a new authority figure in his life (especially a Yankee granite head.) Anyway, if I do end up writing a sequel, it would probably be from one of the C's POV—just whose is left to be determined. I hope, if I write it, it will be of interest. Thanks to all of you who have followed this story and I hope you find the ending satisfactory.**

 **Twenty**

The second night in the cell, Adam's sleep was fitful even though he was heavy with fatigue. He was lightly dozing in the early morning hours when the noise of an unsteady drunk being tossed into the next cell woke him. It was a young man, perhaps a year or two older than Adam, and he cursed a blue streak, calling the sheriff a miserable son-of-a-bitch. But Roy Coffee, being a patient man, didn't take it personally but after he had locked the cell door and nodded to Adam, telling him that breakfast would be in another hour, he turned to the young man who was still declaring he wasn't drunk and that Roy had no right to lock him up and ordered the drunk to shut-up or he'd gag him. Then Roy left and the drunk muttered under his breath, loudly relieved himself in the tin pail in the corner of his cell, the odor of urine filling the air. Then he stumbled over to his cot with only partially buttoned-up dungarees. Adam watched as the drunk practically fell on his cot and within a few minutes, was asleep, snoring as he lay on his back, one arm partially hanging off the side.

Adam lay on his cot a few more minutes—no use trying to sleep-and considered the day before him. Hiram Wood had visited him last evening and informed Adam the case against him looked bad. Granted, it was all circumstantial, but the knife that had killed Frank McClure was his—he had declared it himself and even should he have denied it, it would have been proven otherwise and then he would be known as a liar. And despite the fact that Mrs. McClure claimed he was innocent, Hiram told Adam that the alibi she gave was that she was in the Ponderosa barn with Adam and that the two of them were lovers. That, Hiram said, revealed motive—Adam wanted McClure dead so that he could have Poppy and a share of her inheritance. Granted, Anders McClure, if he could be found, would receive half of the inheritance but it was a great deal of money and property to be divvied.

"What do you mean, 'if he can be found'?"

"Seems that no one can reach Anders. He's supposed to be in the San Francisco office but he hasn't shown for three days. In my last wire I asked the clerk to send the constable to the hotel where Anders lives but haven't yet heard back. If he's dead—which is a possibility since he gambles and isn't very good at winning or paying his debts, according to my sources-I know what the prosecutor will say if he turns up dead."

"That I also had McClure's son killed to make certain Poppy receives it all."

"Yes. And even though Poppy McClure will look bad when she tells of her affair with you…"

"It's not an affair. We just…we're old acquaintances who enjoy each other's company." Adam knew that a jury of his peers would well understand the difference between love and dalliance.

"No matter what you call it or how you put it, according to what the prosecutor has, Mrs. McClure is going to tell about your mutual history and swear that the two of you were in love. Your denying it will only make you look like a cad and jurors don't like a cad." Adam nodded; he didn't expect the jurors to like him no matter what.

They talked a bit more and Hiram brought up the fact that "Esau" claimed to be Adam Cartwright and that Ben Cartwright confirmed it. Therefore, Adam Cartwright was the name by which he had been charged with murder by the prosecutor's office. "And when you come before the judge to be arraigned tomorrow, plead not guilty." Adam nodded. "And one other thing. Being Adam Cartwright won't help you—might even work against you. This is a perfect opportunity to take down Ben Cartwright a notch or two. Your father has helped many people in this town—many of them couldn't have survived last winter if it hadn't been for him but people resent being grateful to those who show them charity."

"I thought of faith, hope and charity, that charity was the greatest of all." Adam couldn't help but be sarcastic. "You telling me this town isn't full of Christian folk?"

"That's just the way people are. And they have a great deal of Bible learning hereabouts—an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth; never mind the negation that comes after it." Hiram rose to leave. "Oh, one more thing; Poppy McClure asked if she could see you—in private. The prosecutor said it was all right by him but I said I'd have to ask you."

Adam chuckled. "Why not? I have a few things she can clear up for me."

So that was where it stood. That morning, Adam would appear before the judge and hear the total charges brought against him and his father would be standing in the spectator section. Hiram was worried about the possible jury selection, Ben confided to Adam the evening before when he had brought in some sweet butter cakes with candied fruit pressed in the tops. That Hiram was worried, worried Ben. Adam tried to make a light-hearted comment about it: "Well, maybe they'll follow 'Judge not that ye be not judged' and we'll have a hung jury and not a hung defendant." But Ben was obviously concerned.

Ben had also brought a copy of _Paradise Lost._

"I thought you might want to read it. I went to Carson City for it this morning."

Adam had looked at the leather-bound volume, running one hand over the embossed cover. "Thank you, Pa. I appreciate it." And his father leaned down and gripped Adam's shoulder.

"I want to say so many things to you, Adam, talk about so many things and now it looks like we might be robbed of the time to get to know each other again."

"Pa, don't worry about things that haven't yet happened. And we have some time yet, don't we?"

Ben smiled but it was without humor. "Yes, well. I'll tell Hop Sing you enjoyed the cakes. He misses baking since…"

"I've given him another reason to bake since Hoss is gone?"

At that both men chuckled. "Yes. And tomorrow, it's a loaf of sour dough bread and fresh butter for you. And only his Chinese gods know what he plans for your supper!"

Adam realized that the bread would give him something to look forward to after the arraignment; and why not? A man who was more than likely going to die had to have some last pleasures, something sensual for his body's sake—something to let him know he was still alive and could enjoy the taste of good food.

So Adam sat on his cot, listening to the drunk in the next cell softly snore, and watched light fill his cell. The sun was up when Roy brought him breakfast—coffee and bacon and two biscuits with apple butter on the side.

"You have a visitor."

Adam looked up. He had just taken the food tray and sat down. He realized that he was hungry and wanted to eat. "My father?" If it was, that meant the loaf of sour dough bread and fresh butter was here. He could have bacon between two slices of the still-warm, crusty bread.

"No, Mrs. McClure. The prosecutor came by last evening- said it's all right if she sees you before your arraignment. Do you want to see her?"

Adam gave a sardonic chuckle. "Sure. I'm supposed to be in love with her, remember? Killed for her."

"Son, I wouldn't joke about that. But I'll let her back here," Roy said and motioned to the open doors between the cells and the outer office. Poppy McClure walked in and Roy held the cell door open while Poppy stepped inside. When the door clanked shut, Poppy spun around, surprised at the noise.

"Sounds kinda final. Doesn't it?" Adam asked as he split open his biscuits and with the spoon, placed the apple butter on them. "I apologize for eating in front of you. Can I offer you a biscuit?"

"Thank you, no. Please eat." She glanced at the drunk in the next cell, listening to him snore. Just like Frank." Then Poppy lifted up her black, net veil and revealed her lovely face, her eyes red-rimmed from tears.

Adam chuckled. "Why, Poppy, you look as if you've been crying. Good job. And thank you for not denying a doomed man any part of his meal. Who knows which meal will be my last. I hear that a mob is growing; they want to lynch me. Will that please you, Poppy?" Adam picked up a slice of greasy bacon and ate it. He wiped his hand on his trouser leg.

"Of course not. I told the sheriff you didn't kill Frank and I'll swear to it under oath. After all, it's true."

"Why'd you drag me into this, Poppy?" Adam sat his breakfast tray aside.

"I had to. I needed an alibi but you have one too; don't worry. It's perfect, Adam. Can't you see? Look…the only other person who could have taken the knife is…" Poppy waited. "Oh, c'mon, Adam. Who else had a grudge against Frank and could have come into the back room and taken your knife to frame you?"

Adam suddenly realized what Poppy had devised. "My father."

"You always were a smart one, Adam." She sat down on the cot beside him, eagerly talking, her pale cheeks flushing pink. "I see it this way. Your father found out who you were, that you were his eldest son and he didn't want it to get out that he left you on the trail to save himself—something like that. It would ruin his reputation, but I'll let the lawyers figure out that one. He also wanted me for himself."

Adam smiled and shook his head. "You think every man's crazy for you and anyone would believe he lusted after you."

"I'm still beautiful, Adam, and your father does give me the once over every time he sees me. Besides, they'll believe it; people always want to believe the worst. Anyway, your father decided to get rid of both Frank and you. He killed Frank while he knew I was with you—neither of us can attest to where he was because we were…well, it's already come out what we were doing. Your father was furious with jealousy, that I was sleeping with you and not him—and since he had earlier taken your knife, he went to the Rocking M, murdered Frank with your knife and then hightailed it back home. We're the sympathetic characters, charges are dropped against you and you have everything you've ever desired and so have I. It's the perfect story; people will eat it up. Oh, can't you see? You'll have the Ponderosa and I'll have the Rocking M—unless they find Anders. But that doesn't matter. We can marry, Adam—you and I-and soon we can own almost the whole Nevada territory! We'll be a force to be reckoned with. And I'll be able to fetch my son and have him with me at last." Poppy smiled triumphantly.

"You are a piece of work. But let me ask you this, Poppy-did you have anything to do with Anders disappearance in San Francisco?"

"No. I think that might just be a bit of good luck; I'm owed some after all this time."

"Good luck, huh? You sure you didn't use your feminine wiles to seduce your foreman to do a bit of nasty work for you? To knock off Anders?"

"Oh, please, Adam. I hate Matt Abrams almost as much as I did Frank. The things he did to me, the things Frank had him do, he enjoyed doing. I've already fired him. He just can't leave town until the investigation is over or he'll be arrested and become a prime suspect. That might work as well. But I think if he's accused, he'll lie and say he saw Ben Cartwright ride up and go into the house."

"You have it all figured out. But how could you kill a sleeping man—a defenseless man? I never would've guessed you could be that cold-blooded."

"I've been beaten by Frank, raped by him and made to endure being called odious names ever since... Well, no reason going into that, but he made me cold-blooded. Frank only got what he deserved. So I took the knife and…I hesitated at first but then I thought back on his slapping me so hard my ears rang, of forcing me to bend to his will, of the pain of…all of it. I remembered all the pain and just did it."

"It didn't wake him up? I mean when you first…"

"Oh, a little laudanum in his wine earlier in the evening and he was soon asleep like a drunk hog. That's all he was—a big, snoring hog who needed butchering. I saw you slide your knife back into the space in your cot and my whole plan came together. I originally planned to take your gun if you wouldn't help me."

"Poppy, what if I tell the sheriff what you just told me?"

"I'll say you're a liar—a jealous liar because I wouldn't leave my husband for you. So you killed him. I'd rather put the suspicions on your father but if you betray me… Besides, they'll believe me. Look at me, Adam. All in black, my eyes red and swollen with crying. I'm a grieving widow who found her husband brutally murdered." She gave Adam a pathetic look.

He chuckled. "You are good, Poppy. Very, very good. You should be on stage at the opera house."

"I could be, you know." Poppy rose, smoothing her skirts. "Don't get up, Adam. Just think about what I said. Go along with me and you'll be free. If I were you, I'd keep our conversation private—just between you and me. But I know you won't betray me, Adam. It's not in you." She smiled and then turned, holding onto the bars with one hand and called out for Sheriff Coffee.

"You ready to leave now?" Roy Coffee asked, his keys jangling.

"Yes," Poppy said, sniffing and touching her eyes with her black linen handkerchief. Roy Coffee unlocked the door and Poppy McClure sedately left, looking once more at Adam, then pulling the black veil down over her face. Roy stood and waited until he heard the door to the office close.

He turned back and before relocking Adam's cell door, Roy called out," Did she say anything interesting?'

The drunk in the next cell sat up. "Did she ever. I'll write it all down while it's fresh in my memory." The man stood and finished buttoning up his dungarees.

"Let me introduce you two," Roy said to an astonished Adam. "Clem, meet Adam Cartwright. Adam, my deputy, Clem Foster."

~ 0 ~

Ben and Roy came to the cell door and Adam rose from the cot where he had been waiting. The key turned in the lock and Roy swung open the door.

"Are you letting me go?" Adam hesitated. He glanced at his father who smiled.

"I finished all the paperwork and Mrs. McClure is sitting under guard at the hotel. I'm not sure if jail is the best place for her but I had anything sharp removed; she's in bad shape."

Adam swept his hat up and put it on. He stood in the doorway. "I hope…well, if she goes to trial, I'll testify-but for the defense."

"What?" Roy asked. "Why would you speak on her behalf? She plotted to frame either you or your father here."

"Maybe because I, well, I understand how hate can affect a person, twist their judgment and take over their life. And Poppy, she suffered a great deal at Frank's hands. I'm sure your deputy heard that as well," Adam said, addressing Roy.

"Well, any trial won't be for a while," Roy said, stepping aside as Adam walked out. "So just put any thought of that out of your mind. Seems to me that you and your father here have a lot to discuss. Another month or so and Hoss and Joe'll be back. This'll be news to them. Wonder how they'll take to it."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Ben said. "But we have some time yet to work things out before they return." Ben turned his attention to Adam. "Besides, I already paid you for a year's work, Adam, and that barn needs mucking out not to mention the horses need exercising and the line needs to be checked. And then there're the mines. Think you could balance books? As for the timber mill…"

"I might just find it easier to stay here in jail," Adam said with a slight smile. The work ahead didn't bother him but the thought of revealing his identity to his half-brothers made him edgy—he hadn't really had time to consider it.

Ben chuckled and Roy shut the cell door with a clang. "Ben, take your boy home."

"Gladly." Ben clapped Adam on the far shoulder, his arm around the broad back, and looked at his son, his heart filling with all the love he realized he had been holding in reserve all those years. "Let's go home, son. I think Hop Sing's prepared a Chinese feast." And the two men, father and son, walked out of the sheriff's office and onto the streets of Virginia City where two horses, a chestnut and a buckskin stood waiting to take their riders home to the Ponderosa.

~ Finis ~


End file.
